


You Can't Dodge Stiles Stilinski

by stilinskisparkles



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dodge Ball, F/M, Frottage, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Rimming, Sex, Teacher-Student Relationship, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 07:09:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilinskisparkles/pseuds/stilinskisparkles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“And this is it?” he points at the first girl. “I saw you in first period, you barely bothered to catch any of the balls you were tossed. I’m pretty sure you spent more time on your cell.”</p><p>The girl rolls her eyes, and looks completely unashamed of the fact she had her phone out in class. Derek knows Finstock would have stepped on it.</p><p>“And you,” he points at the second girl, taller and with eyes that meet Derek’s coolly. “You can’t throw anything worth half a damn. And what are you,” he points at the boy, trying not to look him in the eye, and failing. “A hundred and fifty pounds wet?”</p><p>The boy smirks at him, and Derek looks resolutely away. He’s now desperately trying not to picture him wet.</p><p>"I can't work with <i>this</i>."</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Can't Dodge Stiles Stilinski

Derek is not having a good first day. He would never have agreed to come aboard, but he owes Finstock and it’s only for one season. Then he can go back to being a regular fitness trainer, with no meddlesome kids trying to get one over on him in first period. Derek has been there, he’s done that, he’s got the lasting memory of Harris’ unimpressed face when Erica had sweetly told him that yes, she and Derek were _totally_ making out against his car, and not covering the whole thing with toilet roll. Ok, so teepeeing someone’s car is _never_ the coolest idea, Derek’s aware of this now. And Erica and Boyd had been inseparable for about five months beforehand, so Erica’s blatant lie had gotten them nowhere. But, still, that guy was a bastard to Derek, and his entire class. He deserved it.

He also remains a bastard. When he caught sight of Derek in the teacher’s lounge, Harris’ lip had curled and he’d strode out muttering about not wanting to eat with students. Derek is _twenty four_ , he’s been to college, he has a degree and he owns his own gym. It’s got his name on the door and everything. He doesn’t need shit from his old chemistry teacher just because he’s bitter about something Derek did at seventeen.

The fact that Harris still remembers panics Derek a little, though. If he was pulling dumb pranks like that six years ago, just think what teenagers today can do with their access to the internet, and twitter and—other forms of communication Derek refuses to keep up with. He doesn’t _want_ to be made a target. He’d been hoping to keep interaction with them to a minimum; blow a few whistles, yell encouragement, discourage punk attitudes on the field, nothing more.

It’s only the sheer hope in Scott McCall’s face when he asks Derek if he’ll be able to coach their dodge ball team that he agrees to come to the meeting at all. He’s tired, and antsy, and he needs caffeine. He can smell the cafeteria lunch room as he walks past the doors with the very same coat of paint they had when he was last here. It smells like hot dogs; fuck he’d give anything for a hot dog. His stomach rumbles, and he pinches the bridge of his nose as Scott bounces down the corridor in front of him. He hasn’t played dodge ball since he was here, either.

“We’re really good; I swear it’ll be worth your time.”

“I _don’t_ really have time, though.”

Scott pushes back the door and leads Derek into one of his old art classrooms. He thinks he can see an old painting of some sunflowers Laura did fading on the back wall.

Two girls stand as he enters, but he doesn’t really pay them much notice when he spots the kid lounging over two desks behind. He rolls to sit down when he sees Derek, long legs disappearing under the table, and expectant, amused brown eyes sparkling at him. Slim hands with ridiculous fingers creep to curl under his chin, tapping at his mouth. The _mouth_ this kid has.

Derek is fucked.

“Like I said,” he repeats, glaring at the kid just for existing. “I really don’t have time for anything extracurricular.”

“I thought everything you taught was pretty much extracurricular,” the kid says smartly, and Derek frowns harder at him, crossing his arms to glower at Scott.

“And this is it?” he points at the first girl. “I saw you in first period, you barely bothered to catch any of the balls you were tossed. I’m pretty sure you spent more time on your cell.”

The girl rolls her eyes, and looks completely unashamed of the fact she had her phone out in class. Derek knows Finstock would have _stepped_ on it.

“And you,” he points at the second girl, taller and with eyes that meet Derek’s coolly. “You can’t throw anything worth half a damn. And what are you,” he points at the boy, trying not to look him in the eye, and failing. “A hundred and fifty pounds wet?”

The boy smirks at him, and Derek looks resolutely away. He’s now desperately trying not to picture him wet.

“I can’t work with _this_.”

“Have some faith,” Scott pleads. “We’re better than we look; Lydia’s awesome—”

“I just don’t see the point in a gym class where everyone’s running around like mindless drones after a ball,” Lydia cuts in and Derek stares at her exasperatedly.

“Allison’s amazing.”

The taller girl narrows her eyes at Derek as if _daring_ him to disagree; he won’t.

“And Stiles—”

“Stiles?” Derek snorts. “Is that your team’s mascot?”

“Nope, that’d be me,” Stiles stands and wiggles his eyebrows at Derek. “Whattup.”

“And what do you do?” Derek asks drily.

“Stand at the back and look pretty.”

He _is_ pretty, god damn it.

“You’re two players short,” he says mulishly, refusing to acknowledge Stiles blatantly staring at his arms, he will not be reduced to flexing in front of a seventeen year old.

A seventeen year old Derek is supposed to be teaching. Christ, he’s going to hell.

“Isaac and Danny are at the library,” Lydia informs him. “But they’re both superb players.”

There’s a scuffle at the door and an unruly haired kid falls through it, followed by a much more composed one with a serene smile on his face.

“Sorry we’re late, we were printing stuff out for English.”

“Danny, dimple at Mr Hale,” Stiles drawls. “He’s being stubborn and refusing to work with us.”

The newly named Danny rolls his eyes at Stiles. “Probably because you’re being insubordinate.”

“Oh, I’m _always_  insubordinate,” Stiles says lazily, looking up at Derek from under his lashes.

 _Jesus_.

He glances at his watch to avoid looking at the damn near perfect face this kid has any longer, and nods briefly at Scott. “I have lunch—”

“Wait!” Scott widens his eyes at Derek beseechingly. “You haven’t even seen our plans. Isaac, show him!”

Isaac slides off the desk he’d taken up next to Lydia, and thrusts rolls of paper at him. “We’ve been strategizing—Stiles has been researching the rest of the teams at the competition this year, and we’ve been working on their weaknesses versus our strengths.”

Derek lifts an eyebrow at Stiles who shrugs and looks quickly at the floor as his face flushes pink. Derek bites the inside of his cheek, and rolls the papers out reminding himself the kid’s a damn minor, and Derek is _supposed_ to be a professional.

“See,” Isaac says, pointing at the first drawing. “We’ve got it all covered. We just need someone to stand around, and pretend to be in charge of us.”

“You need a _babysitter_ , and you think because I’m the new guy I’ll do it?”

“No, you’re the one who broke like three different people’s noses when you played on the team here,” Stiles cuts in, and Derek shoots him a look of surprise. He can barely remember playing; he has no idea how they have that information.

“We couldn’t believe our luck when Finstock broke his leg and said you’d be covering for him,” Scott breathes excitedly, before looking abashed. “I mean, not that we were happy Coach broke his leg, but, you know the fact that you used to play and you’re here now and…” he trails off, and Derek can feel himself being swayed.

They’re all looking at him somewhat hopefully, except for Stiles who’s messing around on his phone, and Lydia who’s drumming her nails on the desk and gazing at Isaac.

He sighs. “Fine, I’ll come and see you play first.”

“Great!” Scott almost leaps into the air, and Derek tries not to be irrationally annoyed at how shocked Stiles looks. He’s not a total asshole; these kids need his help, and he can do nice things, no matter what Laura says.

“You won’t regret it, I swear,” Scott promises. “We’re set to win this year.”

Derek tries to look enthusiastic, but it’s obvious his grimace doesn’t come across that way as Lydia rolls her eyes once again, grabs Isaac’s hand and makes for the door. Allison gives him a small smile and touches Scott’s arm, leading him out of the classroom as he talks excitedly, and Danny rolls up the papers, gives Derek a nod, before heading out of the room himself.

Stiles is still sitting at his desk, eyes on Derek.

“What,” he says flatly, aware he should leave and yet somehow, his feet aren’t moving.

“Just don’t let Scott down,” Stiles says finally, and Derek’s eyebrows go up.

“Excuse me?”

“He’s had a tough year, and this is really important to him.”

“It’s not to you?”

Stiles shrugs. “I’m better at long distance running.”

Derek’s eyes fall to his legs without thought, and he clears his throat, begins to walk backwards towards the door. “I’m your Coach; you’re not supposed to be the one lecturing me.”

Stiles snorts. “What are you, four, five years older than me?”

“That’s beside the point,” Derek says crossly. “And while we’re in school you should show me some respect.”

“Sure, ok,” Stiles shrugs on a backpack, fingers sliding up the straps slowly as he walks towards Derek. “And outside of school?” He asks as he makes his way into Derek’s space, eyes boring into Derek’s.

Derek makes an aborted effort to open the door blindly, and Stiles smirks, reaches around him and their fingers brush as he grabs the handle.

“We practice on Wednesday at four,” Stiles informs him, the low almost seductive voice he’d had a moment ago gone as he steps out into the corridor. “See you then, _Mr_ Hale.”

He throws a glance over his shoulder, fucking winks at Derek, before disappearing into the throng of students. Derek watches him go, feeling far too hot for the cool temperature of the corridor, and jumps when the bell goes.

Fuck, he never got a chance to grab a hot dog. That stupid distracting kid.

*

The universe hates Derek. When he arrives at the gymnasium ten minutes after four, the team have already started playing together. Scott was telling the truth when he said they were good. They move fluidly as they pass to one another; fierce looks of concentration on their faces—

And Stiles.

Stiles is Derek’s worst nightmare, or his best wet dream; he hasn’t totally decided. He _should_ decide, on the spot. He shouldn’t even look in his direction. But, he _is_ looking, and Stiles knows he’s looking and is smirking to himself, tossing the ball to Scott with an unnecessary overarm that makes his shirt ride up. Derek wants to lick his hipbones.

Derek is going to be _arrested_.

By Stiles’ father no less.

He’d gone home, been greeted by his over enthusiastic dog, Jack, fended off both his sisters calls, and googled Scott’s team. They’ve made the news a couple of times with wins both last year, and the year before. This is their final year, and their biggest competition; last year some kid called Jackson Whittemore had pulled a jerk move and walked off the team two days before their biggest match, leaving the team to forfeit. In the picture of the team Scott looks crestfallen, Danny and Lydia resigned, and both Allison and Stiles like they want to murder someone. Of course, then he’d seen Stiles’ surname.

 _Stilinski_.

Of course. Derek’s not only having wildly inappropriate thoughts about a kid he’s supposed to be teaching for a semester, he’s also having them about the son of the Sheriff.

“Yo, Mr Hale,” a ball flies out of nowhere and Derek throws out a hand at the last second to catch it, inches from his face.

“My bad,” Stiles hollers from across the hall, not looking apologetic at all. Derek resists the urge to burst the ball and glowers at him instead.

“I thought you’d have quicker reflexes,” Stiles says, eyes going wide and innocent. Derek can’t decide if he wants Stiles to look down at him with those eyes when he’s riding him, or up at him when he’s blowing him. Both are very bad thoughts. He throws the ball to Allison, who catches it easily, and raises his eyebrows at the group.

“You playing another team, or are you all going to run suicides for an hour.”

“We got some of the lacrosse team to help us out,” Scott says sheepishly.

“We’ll crush them easily,” Lydia declares. “But at least you’ll see how we all play as individuals.”

“Don’t bet on it, Martin,” a boy cuts in, Eric, Eden, Ethan?

Danny looks spectacularly pleased to see the guy’s not wearing a shirt, regardless, and Derek rolls his eyes internally. Do all teenage boys feel the need to walk around without their shirt on?

Stiles swaggers over from where he’s been laying out the blockers and stingers, and Derek is relieved to see that _he’s_ at least covered up. He doesn’t need to see Stiles’ naked chest, or broad shoulders, or pelvis, or—

“Mr Hale?”

He snaps to look at Scott, and tries to pretend his ears aren’t burning.

“What are you all waiting for? Get started,” he barks.

Stiles slides past him, far too closely, and over to the near side of the court.

“You’re going down,” Ethan says, and Derek realizes there’s two of him. They’re standing side by side looking like a commercial for cologne or something. He had them both in class earlier, and he can’t for the life of him remember the other ones name.

“Strong words,” Isaac says looking at his fingers disinterestedly. “Coming from someone on a team that hasn’t won a game in months.”

Behind him, Stiles begins stretching his calves and Derek can’t handle that, blows his whistle before the combination of terrible smack talk and those ridiculous legs kill him.

True to their words, Scott’s team destroy Ethan’s. The lacrosse team play like they’re trying to break people’s faces, which Derek understands, but it’s not what wins you the game. Lydia is quick, and cunning; darting into spaces to retrieve balls. Allison is somewhat terrifying when she gets hold of a ball, Isaac just as sharp and strong. Danny lingers around the edges, at the back, always managing to hit his target nonetheless. Scott is a great team leader, winding in and out between his players, directing them, encouraging them.

Derek doesn’t want to talk about Stiles, or the way his body contorts to avoid being knocked out, or the wicked smile on his face, or the triumphant laughter that he produces when he hits someone.

Some kid called Matt is acting as their retriever, and he spends most of the game taking photographs. They literally don’t need him. Any loose balls, any overzealous shots; they’re all picked up by someone on the team.

Derek is impressed. At the end of the game, the team head over to him looking pleased as punch. He can’t repress the small grin he gives them, nodding as he does so.

“Ok, yeah, you’re alright.”

“Alright?” Stiles scoffs. “We were fucking legendary out there.”

“Language,” Derek reprimands. He needs to lay down boundaries before they get any ideas; before _Derek_ gets any ideas.

Stiles sticks his tongue between his teeth, beaming at Derek. “Sorry.” He doesn’t look sorry at all. He makes Derek’s stomach _flip_.

“When’s your first game?” He directs his question at Scott, turning so that his back’s to Stiles.

“Next Sunday; it’s just a friendly warm up one, though.”

“Alright, d’you know the gym on the corner of Fifth?”

Scott snorts, glancing over Derek’s shoulder at Stiles. “Yeah, we do.”

Derek chooses to ignore whatever that particular look meant, and nods. “Be there on Saturday, nine am.”

“What?!” Isaac looks horrified. “When will I sleep?!”

“Sleep is for the weak,” Derek says dismissively, and Stiles cackles behind him.

“Sleep is for the weak?”

Derek spins to look at him. “Fine, be there at eight.”

“Eight? Stiles!”

“I didn’t even say anything!” Stiles scowls at Derek, and Derek smirks back victoriously.

“Seven?”

“Look, we’ll be there at eight,” Scott cuts in. “Is this for extra training?”

“You’ll all need to step up your exercise regimes in the weeks leading up to the competition. I can help with that; I run the gym.”

Stiles starts humming _Run The World_ , and Derek resists the urge to cuff him round the head.

“Just be there,” he says through gritted teeth before stalking out of the hall. He hears them all whoop behind him, and if it makes him smile all the way to his car well then, that’s just between himself and the radio.

Which thankfully chooses to play Beyoncé’s _1+1_ instead of anything too on the nose. He turns it off, regardless, because it makes him start thinking about sex, and he’s going to have to actively shut that out until he can be free of Beacon Hills High once more.

Fucking Stiles Stilinski.

No, wait, _not_ fucking Stiles Stilinski. There will be no fucking. Absolutely none.

At all.

*

“And who pissed in your cheerios this morning?” Erica pads into the kitchen in one of Boyd’s work out shirts, twisting her sleep ruffled hair into a plait as she walks.

Derek crunches down on his bran flakes and watches her morosely.

“Seriously,” she sits cross legged on the counter and tosses an apple between her hands. “You came home happy like sunshine last night.”

“I have to teach classes today,” he says grimly.

“So? Snapping at kids to behave, waving a cane around, peering at them over some sexy glasses,” she shrugs. “Sounds like cliché porn; I should totally get into teaching.”

“I don’t snap, or own a cane, and I don’t need glasses.”

“ _Yet_ , you’re getting on, though.”

He flicks his spoon at her and she laughs, catching it easily. “What’s actually wrong with teaching them, Derek? The students scare you? Big, scary teenagers.”

“Loud, annoying attractive ones more like,” he grumbles, shoving his bowl in the sink and running the tap.

Erica leans over the sink to gape at him. “What?!”

“Never mind,” he says quickly, heading for the door.

“Oh no,” she wraps her legs around his waist and yanks him back towards her. “Boyd, get in here! Derek’s found himself some jailbait!”

“I don’t care,” Boyd yells from the shower. “Anyone’s better than that last girl he dated.”

“Ugh,” Erica loosens her grip on his hips and pulls a face. One of Derek’s favorite things about his best friend is how much she loathes Kate Argent. His first year of college was an absolute nightmare because of her, and she left him in the middle of the night somewhere in the last semester, conveniently forgetting to tell him she’d lit his dorm room on fire. Erica still hasn’t forgiven her for the loss of Boyd’s lacrosse jersey. Or, for nearly killing Derek, of course.

“Argent,” Derek mumbles, frowning suddenly. Argent, Argent, fuck, fuck, _Allison Argent_. Jesus, is this whole town out to kill him?

“I can’t go to school,” he says firmly. “Call them and tell them I’ve got the flu.”

Erica scoffs and kicks him towards the door. “Don’t be a chicken shit, and don’t put your dick in anyone underage.”

“I hate you,” he grouses.

“Have a nice day at work, honey,” she sing songs.

Within five minutes of leaving Erica, Cora’s name is flashing up on his phone and he answers with a sigh.

_“A student, Derek?!”_

“Would you please, not?”

_“Big bro, I had no idea you had it in you to be such a dark horse.”_

_“I did.”_ Laura yells down the receiver and he winces, switches them to hands free as he pulls out of the garage of his apartment block. _“Although, really Der, school kids?”_

“I’m no longer speaking to any of you,” he says crossly.

_“You love us really.”_

“I do not.”

 _“Yes, you do, just like you want to get in the pants of some seventeen year old, my **my** , Derek I am shocked,”_ Laura teases.

“I’m hanging up.”

_“No, wait, tell me the name of the kid whose got your panties in a twist first. I want to Facebook stalk them.”_

_“I bet it’s that girl that was at mom and dad’s Christmas party last year, hot red head,”_ Cora says thoughtfully as Laura types away in the background. _“Or, uh what’s his name—Danny—Danny something? He was a cutie while I was there, and that was two years ago; I bet he’s grown up nicely.”_

“It’s not important!” Derek protests. “And it’s not even a thing. And this is ridiculously illegal—”

 _“It’s not illegal to have thoughts, Derek,”_ Laura chides.

“You’re a _lawyer_ ; you should be warning me against all of this, not encouraging it!”

_“Oh, hey, I found a class picture. **Damn** , that Whittemore kid’s got some cheekbones.”_

“You’re both being so totally immoral right now,” he chides as he pulls into the school parking lot. “Besides, Jackson Whittemore left last year.”

_“Ohhhhhh, what about that one?”_

_“Totally Derek’s type.”_

_“Yeah, and look at that smile.”_

He feels his stomach drop. “Would you two stop?”

 _“Sure, sure, just so long as you can tell us if it is or it isn’t the lil’ cutie with moles—he’s pretty_ ,” Laura sighs dramatically.

“It’s not Stiles.”

_“Ha! Liar! You knew who I was talking about.”_

“Goodbye,” he says flatly. “Don’t call me ever again.”

_“Go forth and conquer the Sheriff’s kid, Derek.”_

“I’m not conquering anyone!”

He officially hates his life, and all the people in it. Except Boyd. Derek is forever thankful Boyd doesn’t care about any of the drama in his life.

*

“Suicides,” he yells when Stiles’ class appear. “Go!”

There’s a chorus of boos, and general discourse but Derek can’t handle doing anything else with them right now. Running is safe, running is—

Stiles is _running_ ; his legs flexing, shorts clinging to his ass, face set in concentration as he leads the group. This was a terrible idea.

“Hockey,” he says suddenly. “You all know how to play?”

Scott’s looking at him as if he’s a little deranged, but manages to champion the class into setting up a game. _Derek_ manages to avoid looking at Stiles too much, comments on general technique and form for his other classmates, and pretends he doesn’t see Stiles making lewd gestures with his hockey stick. He’s a fucking Saint for it, too. Stiles’ hands are wrapped around the stick, long fingers curling deliciously; it’s giving Derek palpitations.

Then Ethan’s stick catches Stiles round the face and there’s suddenly chaos on the field.

Stiles is on the floor spitting blood, Scott’s yelling at Ethan, and Isaac looks very close to punching him. Danny slides in-between them; Ethan looking panicked and apologetic and clutching at Danny’s arm.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says incredulously.

“My whole face is on fire,” Stiles moans.

“Clear out, go shower,” Derek instructs everyone, waving them away as he bends down next to Stiles. “Stilinski.”

“Oh, I like it when you say my name like that,” Stiles says faintly.

Derek snorts despite himself as Scott goes from looking concerned to totally grossed out.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

Stiles blinks fuzzily at him, and then his eyes sharpen, pupils dilating as he looks at Derek’s fingers. “Uh.”

Derek puts his hand down quickly, and helps him stand. “Scott, can you get the first aid kit from the office?”

Scott nods, jogging away, and Derek keeps his hand around Stiles’ biceps, leading him towards one of the benches at the side of the field.

“Did I lose any teeth?”

Derek sits him down, and gently eases Stiles’ mouth open. “Nope, all there.”

Stiles tests out his jaw movement and Derek lets his face go feeling hot all over.

“Was it really an accident? That kid need talking to?”

Stiles snorts. “You think he’d get away with bullying me? Did you see Isaac and Scott out there? It was an accident.” He licks his lips and grins faintly at Derek. “But, it might be fun to see you yell at him anyway.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “I’m not really the yelling sort.”

“Oh, I bet you are under the right circumstances.”

“ _Stiles_.”

“What? I’m possibly concussed! I can’t be held responsible for what I’m saying,” Stiles says easily. “You ever been hit round the face with a hockey stick before?”

“No,” Derek thinks back for a moment. “Dislocated my shoulder when a friend of mine tackled me once, though.”

“You get a scar?”

“No, but I have one from where my sister bit me when I was nine,” he lifts his elbow and Stiles laughs delightedly.

“Nice. I have this,” he pulls his shirt up and Derek shuts his eyes briefly. “From where Scott caught me with a spade once.”

When Derek opens his eyes he sees a faint white line of a scar on Stiles’ side, just under his ribcage. He doesn’t reach out and touch it, though, the urge is surprisingly strong. He doesn’t know what the fuck it is with this kid.

“I was thirteen, had to get stitches and everything,” Stiles tells him gleefully.

Derek snorts. “Your best friend tried to stab you with a spade; very Machiavellian.”

“How do you know he’s my best friend?”

“You play like you’ve known each other for years, and you don’t like dodge ball that much but you’re still playing,” Derek shrugs. “Either that or you have a crush on Lydia.”

Stiles laughs ruefully. “That was a while back.”

Derek wants to ask, and then remembers himself. He’s not here to bond with Stiles, or get to know him. And he’s certainly not allowed to be jealous of a seventeen year old girl.

“Besides,” Stiles squints up at him. “I’ve got much more interesting fish to fry now.”

Derek gazes back at him for a moment, and then looks away, stamping on his twitchy heart beat at the intensity of Stiles’ gaze.

Scott jogs back over, and he’s never been so happy to see a first aid kit. He snaps the ice pack, holds it out to Stiles. “Wear it until your next class, if you want a new one at lunch, come and find me.”

“Sure,” Stiles gives him a lopsided grin and holds the pack to his cheek.

Derek heads for the office himself and refuses to look back. He has to write a report stating that on his third day as a sub, a kid got hit round the face with a hockey stick.

Finstock’s going to be so pissed at him.

*

Erica laughs until tears are streaming down her face.

“Never change, Derek. Never. You just don’t have game do you, honey?”

“Would you stop?” He’s mildly concerned she’s following him out the door. “Where are you going?”

“To the gym,” she says brightly. “We’ve not seen each other since Wednesday, I need my Derek time.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do. Also,” she smirks. “I want to see this special dodge ball team you’re getting up at seven am on a Saturday to go work out with.”

Derek had managed to successfully avoid telling Erica that Stiles is on the dodge ball team, or anything about his week up until half an hour ago. He’d stayed in his room, or raced to the shower to avoid confrontation. He’s also been ignoring calls from his sisters.  

Which is of course why they’re both at the desk when he gets into the gym.

“Go home,” he huffs.

“But we wanted to say hi,” Cora says fondly, ruffling his hair.

“Hi, good bye.”

“Derek—”

“It is _too fucking early_ for this,” Stiles complains loudly, walking through the glass doors and then halting when he sees Derek surrounded by the women in his life. “Am I still asleep?”

Scott appears, nudging him along. “No, and quit asking.”

“Oh,” Laura sighs from where she’s sitting on the counter, eyeing Stiles as he scratches his face sleepily, fucking _adorably_. “Oh, _Derek_.”

“Shut _up_ ,” he snaps, waving Stiles and Scott over. “Everyone else on their way?”

“I think so,” Scott says, snapping to alertness. “At least, I think Isaac answered? There was just a lot of groaning, but Lydia said she’d be here which means he will be, too.”

“Lydia as in Lydia Martin?” Cora raises an eyebrow. “I was in her sister’s class.”

“Cool,” Scott says brightly, before frowning. “Um, who are you?”

“Yes, who _are_ all your friends, Mr Hale?” Stiles asks in a somewhat brittle tone.

Beside him, Derek can feel Erica fucking vibrating with excitement. “My sisters,” he thumbs at them both. “Laura, Cora, and this is my friend Erica.”

“Not to be accidentally thought of as anything but _friend_ ,” Erica purrs, winking at Stiles.

Stiles flushes red and Derek catches himself before he outright pouts. Best friend or not, Erica is not allowed to flirt with someone he likes, he—

 _Does not like Stiles_. He is Stiles’ _Coach_. Teacher. Sub. Whatever. It’s not a thing.

“We’ll get started,” he snaps, clapping his hands together and making Stiles jump.

Cora starts fastidiously tying her hair back, and Laura pulls out a Mars bar. “You guys go ahead, I’ll be right in.”

“How do you stay like that?” Erica complains, jabbing a finger into Laura’s ribs.

“Fast metabolism,” Laura boasts. “Besides, it’s not like you don’t have a perfect figure.”

“It’s all the sex I have,” Erica declares loftily. “Cardio is so good for you, don’t you agree, Stiles?”

“Erica,” Derek warns as Stiles leans away from her and accidentally into Derek. He looks unfairly adorable; sleepy and confused. Derek places a hand on the small of his back to guide him around Erica.

“I’m an engaged woman, Derek, don’t you worry about me.”

“That’s _all_ I do,” he huffs before pushing open the gym doors. “Do you two know how to stretch properly?”

Stiles looks up at him with wide eyes, and Derek coughs violently. “For exercise—I mean conditioning—treadmills!”

“This is _so_ fun,” Cora murmurs as she sidles past him to head for the rowing machines.

“Warm up,” he says a little desperately. “I’ll get you a routine drawn out.”

He hides in the office for twenty minutes, and when he returns Isaac and Danny are stretching, Lydia and Allison are talking to Cora; all in a line on rowing machines, and Stiles and Scott are tossing weights at each other.

“Put those down!”

God, should he have gotten disclaimers from their parents for this? He winces as one of the weights falls precariously close to Stiles’ toes, and draws them all in.

“For the next four weeks you can use the gym whenever you like, so long as it’s open,” he adds, giving Stiles a warning look. Stiles pouts and Derek refuses to find it appealing. “The competition’s right after your exams, so you won’t need to worry about not having time to train.”

“It’s just dodge ball,” Isaac complains. “We didn’t need this last year.”

“We also didn’t win last year,” Scott points out, eyes still on Derek’s training regime. “And this will help.”

Isaac lets out a put upon sigh, and Derek takes it as consent to continue. They’re all pretty fit as it is, so he doesn’t encourage them to change their diet much, they mostly need conditioning in their lives in a big way.

They break apart to get started, and Derek heads for his favorite running machine. It’s got a clear view of the whole gym, the office, and the window. What he doesn’t plan for is Stiles casually walking alongside him on the next treadmill.

“So, lots of sisters,” he says casually.

“You should be running,” Derek grits out, upping his own pace in an attempt to tune him out.

“Naw, I already do that before school; don’t need to do more.”

“Then go lift some weights.”

“I’m quite happy making my own fun right here,” Stiles says lightly before jabbing randomly at Derek’s machine and speeding it up.

“Stiles!” Derek reaches out to grab his wrist. “You don’t touch other people’s machines like that.”

“My hand slipped.”

Derek realizes they’re no longer moving, and he’s still holding onto Stiles’ arm and lets go quickly.

“Quit fooling around.”

“I want to do the opposite,” Stiles shoves his hands in his pockets and starts walking again as he talks. “I want to do _all_ the fooling around,” he glances at Derek casually. “You wanna?”

Derek stares at him, mouth agape. “I—”

Stiles juts his chin at Derek’s machine. “You wanna start up again, or you just gonna stand there all day looking like a fool.”

Derek slams his machine on, and refuses to look at Stiles right the way through his run. He can still feel Stiles’ amused gaze on him the entire time.

*

The team play a vicious three on three with Derek one afternoon, and Derek finds himself remembering why he fucking loved this game. He doesn’t necessarily thrive on violence, but he can be fairly aggressive. He likes how fast paced it all is, how much he has to be on his toes, and how fucking _fun_ it can be.

Scott and Stiles keep yelling out Ben Stiller quotes from the Dodge Ball movie, and beside him Isaac is getting steadily more and more worked up at their antics. Derek has learnt to let it go over his head. He likes watching Stiles’ face when he’s enjoying something. He likes the sound of his laugh, and the crease in his brow when he concentrates and—

“Coach!” Lydia screeches behind him. “Throw your ball at Allison and hit her or I will murder you in your sleep!”

“That seems a little extreme,” he yells back. “Threatening bodily harm to your teacher?”

“I’m a _little_ competitive, sue me.”

“Maybe I will,” he says, grinning and tossing a long ball at Scott’s shoulder. Stiles tries to leap in front of it to no avail, and Scott pouts as he heads off the court.

Allison catches a short shot from Isaac easily seconds later, and Scott races back into position. It’s been a fast game, and Derek’s been caught out a couple of times by a sharp throw from one of his opposition. He’s more than a little rusty.

Danny slides into the room, distracting Isaac who waves at him, and a ball that would have caught him in the chest smacks into the side of his face. Blood splatters down Derek’s shirt, and Isaac falls to the floor.

“Oh my god,” Allison rushes over and kneels beside Isaac looking horrified. “I’m _so_ sorry.”

“Is my nose broken? It feels broken,” Isaac gasps out.

Derek bends over him, wondering if there’s some sort of record he’s going to set with the most students hit in the face during his time as Coach, and makes Isaac look at him. He applies pressure and Isaac flinches, but doesn’t screech in pain.

“You’re fine, you’d _know_ if it was broken.”

“I can recommend a good ice pack,” Stiles says lightly, patting Isaac on the shoulder. “You want?”

“I’ll take him straight to the nurse,” Lydia says briskly, looking far too upset to pull off her nonchalant tone.

Allison and Scott follow looking concerned, Scott cuffing Danny over the head when he gets close. “That was totally your fault!”

“Hey,” Derek startles and sees Stiles looking at him. “You got a spare?”

“What?”

Stiles gestures to his shirt. “You look like you just ate a baby deer or something.”

Derek looks down and sees Isaac’s blood splattered across his chest. “Oh, fuck,” he mumbles, tugging it off.

“Oh, sure, or do that,” Stiles stutters. “Attendance will sky rocket in one afternoon if word gets around Coach Hale is walking about shirtless.”

“ _Ha ha_.”

“Come on, I’ve got a spare in my locker,” Stiles begins to walk towards the locker room, and with no other option than the horrifying one Stiles just suggested, he follows.

Stiles bangs open his locker, and Derek tries not to stare at the long, lean lines of his back leading to an ass Derek wants to put his hands all over.

“Here,” Stiles spins around and Derek jerks his eyes up. Stiles lifts an eyebrow, smirk creeping onto his face. “You need another minute?”

Derek grabs the shirt, face burning, and pulls it on. He refuses to think about the fact the cotton smells like Stiles, or wonder about the things Stiles has done in this shirt, the times he’s sweated in it, or even jerked off in it, or—

He slams out of the locker room with a mumbled thanks, and flees to his office.

*

He manages to avoid direct contact with Stiles for a few days. It’s early Wednesday morning and he’s out running on the preserve with Jack. They’ve paused for a breather, and suddenly Jack is barking excitedly and disappearing further up the path.

“Jack!” Derek darts after him, and then stumbles over his own feet when he sees Stiles bent over, talking to his dog.

“Yeah, you are one majestic beast, aren’t you?” Jack preens and Stiles laughs, stroking at his coat. “And so big, a big dog, the King dog, _King Dog_.”

“Mr Stilinski,” Derek says carefully after a moment.

“Gah!” Stiles leaps to his feet, clutching at his chest. “You?!”

“Good morning to you, too.”

“Don’t you have your own gym you can go and be all—” Stiles waves at his torso, “ _Sweaty_ in?”

“I don’t think Jack would enjoy the treadmill as much as he enjoys chasing squirrels,” Derek says easily. He takes in Stiles’ vest and loose shorts, and then looks determinedly at his face. It’s not that much of a sacrifice.

“How’s your bruise?”

“Oh,” Stiles’ hand flutters up to his face and Derek watches, mesmerized as he touches the tender area. “Ok, you know,” Stiles grins. “I’ve had worse. Hey, I totally didn’t picture you with a dog.”

“And how did you picture me?” He bites his tongue as soon as the words are out, but Stiles catches it, smirks at him.

“Don’t get me started,” he says lightly, and Derek’s breath catches. They look across at one another for a moment and Stiles clears his throat, rocks back on his heels. “So, you run here often?” Stiles winces as Derek snorts. “That came out wrong.”

“Yes,” Derek says in lieu of teasing. It’s nice, seeing Stiles outside of school and watching his dog lick happily at Stiles’ hand, but it’s also _not allowed_. Derek is not allowed to make small talk with him, or stand in the ever warming sun with him, the light casting shadows across Stiles’ face, dancing over the curves and slants.

“I told you I came running,” Stiles says after a moment. “This is where I run, obviously. It’s quiet, you know, nicer than the school track.”

Derek nods. “Yeah, since I’ve been back it’s where I come most days.”

“Funny that we’ve never run into each other, literally.”

“And I’m forever grateful for it,” Derek deadpans.

“Yeah,” Stiles’ smile goes tight and he nods, the easy contentment on his face vanishing. “See you at school then.”

“Stiles—”

“Later, Mr Hale,” Stiles yells over his shoulder, already jogging away.

Jack goes to bound after him and Derek shoots out a hand, holds his collar firmly. “We are not allowed to chase that one,” he says quietly. Jack whines and sits at his feet, tail wagging as they both watch him go.

In class, later, Stiles is quiet and not at all the rambunctious character Derek has enjoyed thus far. Derek watches him make notes for a while before he seems to zone out altogether, and stares out of the window. Scott looks worried, and makes three attempts to engage Stiles in conversation; all of which are gently shut down.

At the end of class, Derek leans back in his chair and calls for Stiles to stay behind.

Stiles stalks to his desk, hands clutching at his backpack as he looks at a point over Derek’s shoulder. It’s irritating how much Derek doesn’t like the lack of eye contact.

“What,” Stiles says finally.

Derek raises an eyebrow and Stiles rolls his eyes. “I’m sorry; _can I help you_ , Mr Hale?”

“What I said earlier,” Derek begins and Stiles shrugs immediately, waves a hand.

“Don’t even sweat it, it’s cool. You’re my teacher, got it,” he clicks his tongue and cocks his fingers at Derek in a mock gun.

Derek wants to say it’s for the best. He wants to nod, and wave Stiles on his way. Instead he sighs, fixes Stiles with a _look_. “Don’t be dense about this.”

Stiles purses his lips, narrows his eyes at Derek. “Don’t treat me like an idiot,” he says finally.

“I’m not—” Derek sighs. “You’re the furthest thing from stupid, or an idiot, Stiles.”

“Yeah? Then maybe don’t treat me like one,” Stiles snaps before hoisting his backpack higher and leaving the room.

He’s not trying to do anything untoward, or to treat Stiles like an idiot; he’s trying to keep things professional, and to not cross any damn lines. It’s not fair that the first person Derek has been seriously attracted to in years is still attending high school, and Derek’s supposed to be _teaching_ him.

*

Scott is bouncing on the balls of his feet with excitement when Derek arrives at their game the following Sunday. Lydia and Isaac are perched next to one another looking like catwalk models on the warm up bench, and Allison and Danny are playing some sort of violent hand slapping game. Stiles has his headphones on, knees jittering as he lies sprawled out further along the bench. Derek puts a hand on his knee and pushes his legs unceremoniously off to sit down.

Stiles’ eyes snap open and he scowls at Derek; puts his feet back on the bench, shoved up next to Derek’s thigh. They glare at one another for a moment before Stiles closes his eyes again, digging his toes into Derek’s thigh. He sighs internally, dropping his hand to by Stiles’ foot. For a split second, he gives in; brushes his fingers over Stiles’ ankle, and he feels Stiles still, eyes still shut tight before he leans into the touch. Derek trails his thumb over the delicate bone, slides it up his calf and then realizes what he’s doing and stands, clearing his throat.

When Stiles stands a few seconds later his mouth is less downturned than it has been since Wednesday, and Derek takes heart from it.

“You guys need some sort of pep talk?”

Danny scoffs, and then looks apologetic. “Sorry, was that a sincere question?”

“Mahealani, I have the power to fail you.”

“No,” Danny says with a grin. “You don’t, but good motivation, Coach, thanks.”

“Strong words,” Stiles concurs beside him. “The threat of nonexistent failure. Powerful stuff.”

“Just go out there and win,” Derek snaps.

Stiles bites his lip, eyebrows shooting up, but he salutes Derek and heads out onto the court. Scott brings the group in for a split second, and when they break Stiles smacks him on the ass. Scott screeches, and in the background Lydia looks fondly exasperated. Allison’s already staring down her opposition.

The opposing Coach comes over to Derek, and waves the whistle at him. “You wanna?”

“Nah, go ahead.”

He wants to watch how they really play, full on competitive mode. He’s brought a notepad with him, and he plans to make revised training routines based on what he sees.

Isaac gets overly competitive. Lydia overthinks the opposition. Allison gets far too aggressive. Scott flits around too much. Danny overthrows. Stiles aggravates the opposition into aiming for him, or tries to take hits for his team.

At the end of the game Stiles tosses a water bottle over himself and Derek wonders if he’s being punished.

“You’re a mess,” he says to the group at large, determinedly not looking at Stiles shaking water off his face.

Lydia opens her mouth to argue and he puts the notebook in front of her. “I have thoughts.” She pauses to read through them, and after a minute, nods.

“He has a point,” she concedes, and everyone seems to straighten up at her approval. Derek tries not to feel offended seeing as he’s the one with the fucking BA in Sports Science.

“Thank you,” he says faintly, and she nods regally at him. “Look, you’re generally a great team, but if you tighten it up you can have that competition in the bag. Do you play every week now?”

“Up until exams,” Scott says breathlessly.

“You’ve got eight weeks to get up to scratch, then you’ll totally knock every other team off their feet at the big meet.”

Stiles cackles beside him, and Derek rolls his eyes.

“You’re a poet—” Stiles begins, looking at him expectantly.

“I’m not finishing that dumb rhyme for you.”

“Spoilsport,” Stiles sniffs, pulling up his vest and wiping his face with it. Derek spins around to grab at the nearest object; it’s Stiles’ iPod.

“Don’t—don’t forget this,” he says gruffly, eyes fixed on the iPod.

“Thanks,” Stiles says, sliding his thumb up the inside of Derek’s wrist as he takes it. Derek tries not to shudder, and makes for the exit with one last round of _good games_ and a fleeting glance at Stiles that he should not have allowed himself.

*

“Greenberg!” Fucking Greenberg, Derek doesn’t know what this kid’s issue is, but he can’t get him to concentrate on anything to save his life. “Eyes on your work.”

“Sorry, Coach,” Greenberg says mournfully, retreating from staring at Danny.

Ethan flicks a pen at Greenberg’s face, and Derek sighs inwardly. He’s sure he was never this bad. His eyes drift over to the corner to where Stiles is chewing on his pencil, fingers drumming the side of the desk. As if sensing Derek’s eyes on him he looks up, and quirks a grin around his pencil. Derek looks quickly away, clearing his throat and shuffling papers around the desk. When he next glances up, Stiles is leaning back in his chair, legs splayed and eyes dancing with amusement as he looks right back at Derek. Slowly, he sinks lower in his chair and spreads his legs further.

Derek can feel his dick stirring, and harrumphs, standing and beginning to write on the board behind him. He hears Stiles clear his throat but when he spins round, glaring suspiciously, Stiles’ eyes are on his books. Derek can see a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth and scowls to himself.

Fucker.

“Coach?”

“Yeah, Isaac?”

“I can’t read what you’re writing.”

Derek examines the board, and feels ridiculously foolish. His writing is scrawled and minute. “Oh,” he laughs awkwardly. “Sorry, not used to the writing on the board part.”

“You didn’t have to write lines when you were at school?”

Scott splutters a cough and reaches over to cuff Stiles round the head, but Derek merely lifts an eyebrow. “They’d moved past that sort of punishment for speaking out of turn in class, but, you know what, Stilinski? I think I’ll make an exception and bring it back this afternoon. You can stay and write me a whole board full after school.”

Stiles’ mouth falls open in shock and Derek gives him a toothy grin.

He will not be beaten by this kid.

A paper airplane hits him on the shoulder five minutes later, and Derek _stamps_ on it.

After class, Stiles strolls to the front, and then stares in horror at the instructions Derek’s written at the top of his penalty card.

“A hundred and fifty lines? Are you nuts?”

He clenches his jaw and stares determinedly at the paper. “Yep.”

“I will not behave in a juvenile manner in class, _one hundred and fifty_ times.”

“Yep.”

“Coach, this is—”

“Exactly what you deserve for mouthing off in my class.”

Stiles’ eyes go huge and Derek meets them firmly. He will not be swayed by fucking Disney eyes.

“Fine,” Stiles says quietly, turning towards the board. Derek’s surprised at the easy way he’s acquiesced, but counts his blessings that Stiles isn’t making jokes about spanking and goes back to work before he starts thinking about _that_.

There’s silence in the classroom, but for the sound of Stiles’ pen across the board and his occasional huff of exasperation.

“Did you really have to pick such long words?”

“I could have added plenty of other taxing words, be glad I didn’t make it any longer.”

“My wrist is going to hurt for _days_.”

“Then you’ll learn your lesson,” Derek says primly, licking his thumb as he turns the page in the economics textbook on Finstock’s desk. He has no idea what he’s reading, he’s just looking at anything to prevent himself from staring at the way Stiles bites his lip as he writes.

“You really never had to write lines, or do detention?”

Derek shrugs, closes the book altogether; it would be rude to read if Stiles is talking to him, ok?

“I didn’t say that.”

Stiles leans against the board, his shoulder smudging through half his lines, and Derek can’t bring himself to point it out. “So, you _were_ the naughty kid?”

Derek smirks. “On occasion, Laura was worse than me, though.”

“What’s the worst thing you ever did?”

He scratches his chin, thinking about it for a moment. “A friend of mine once pantsed me at the end of a lacrosse game, so I filled his locker with glitter. It literally trailed after him for days. Erica called him the sparkle princess for about a year after.”

Stiles throws his head back and laughs, and Derek is so caught off guard he’s still staring when Stiles calms down and blinks at him.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly. “Did you finish?”

“Oh, yeah,” Stiles gestures at the board, and then notices the lines he’s smudged. “Oh, shit do they count?”

“Language! And no, but—” Derek points at his shirt. “You’ve got ink on your shoulder.”

“Dude, no! This is my favorite,” Stiles sighs, tugging it off and his t-shirt sleeves stretch fetchingly over his arms.

Derek steps forward without thinking. “And you’ve got it—” he gestures at Stiles’ cheek, and Stiles laughs, licks his hand and starts scrubbing vehemently.

“Oh, ouch, fuck, bruise!” He clutches at the fading purple bruise, and Derek rolls his eyes.

“You’re a complete danger to yourself.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says flatly, watching as Derek grabs the board cloth and uses it to wipe at his face. “You’re going to get more on me.”

“Quit complaining,” Derek retorts. “Or do it yourself.”

“I’d always rather have company.”

Derek drops the cloth like it’s on fire and turns away as Stiles smirks at him.

“Can I go? Or, did you want me to do anything else?”

“Go away,” Derek grinds out, sitting down at the desk heavily. “And if you throw more paper in my class I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Stiles leans over it, still smirking.

“I’ll have the rest of your team line up and throw balls at you for an hour.”

Stiles hovers for moment—face far too close to Derek’s for comfort— and then grins. “I can handle balls in my face. Can you?”

“You’re free to leave,” Derek grits out.

“I’m taking that as a yes,” Stiles declares loftily.

Derek waits until he’s sauntered from the room before burying his head in his hands.

*

“So, you’re going to wait for him to turn eighteen and then pounce?”

Derek sighs, drops his head onto the table briefly, and hears Laura fill up his wine glass.

“How did we go from Boyd and Erica’s wedding, to Stiles Stilinski?”

“I want to know whose wedding to plan next,” Laura says simply.

“Your own!”

“That one’s already taken care of,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “I’m going to marry Ryan Gosling, and he’s going to take me to Hawaii for our honeymoon.”

“How original.”

“As opposed to wanting to fuck a student?” Cora waves her fork at Derek. “You know you’re only delaying the inevitable. I’ve seen the two of you together.”

“Once. You’ve seen us at the gym together, once.”

“And the UST crackled like wildfire.”

“You are my _baby_ sister,” he says mournfully. “You shouldn’t be commenting on things like this at all.”

“Oh, please, Laura bought me my first box of condoms.”

“Laura!”

“It was seven years ago, Derek, I’m pretty sure she’s over the shock.”

“You bought her condoms at fourteen?!”

“I wanted her to be prepared.”

“And I was.”

“I don’t want to hear about this.”

Laura sighs, and sits back in her chair, fixing Derek with a look so similar to their mother’s it’s eerie.

“I’m not saying it has to be this one, Derek. I’m not saying it has to be now. But eventually you do need to get back in the dating game.”

“Because it worked out so well the last time.”

“Speaking of the devil; what’s her niece like?”

“Competitive, _steely_ , in love with Scott but, apparently there’s been some sort of break up,” he informs her, pushing his salad around as he prepares for what’s coming.

“Oh, yes? And how do you know this?”

“Stiles told me,” he mumbles.

“Was this when you were trying to show him some yoga poses?” Cora asks innocently.

 _That_ had not been a fun experience. Erica, continuing her streak of being a _total menace_ had casually mentioned to the group at large that Derek took up yoga when they were in school and Stiles’ face had lit up. He’d then dragged Derek out onto the mats and made him go through some basics.

Derek hadn’t known where to look.

It’s Sunday night and Scott’s team have played another game and come out victorious. Derek had bluffed through most of his teaching classes all week; Finstock’s notes mostly consisted of exclamation points and words like DAMMIT scrawled in huge letters over blank lesson plans, and spent Saturday morning trying his damndest not to imagine Stiles bending over backwards to grab Derek’s calves just to get deeper than he was before and—

He drops his fork with a clatter and whistles for Jack.

“We’re going for a run.”

“You can’t hide from your problems forever,” Laura warns.

“Says the twenty six year old drinking her brother’s wine instead of going home and writing up her cases?”

“Please,” she scoffs. “I could write those things up in my sleep.”

“Don’t drink all my good stuff,” he snaps, before heading out the door, their laughter ringing in his ears. He jogs for a while, determinedly not thinking about Stiles, or Laura’s point about how he’s become something of a social hermit over the last couple of years. He knows his sisters want him to be happy, and Derek’s not a martyr, he wants that, too. It’s just that the first person he’s genuinely interested in in quite some time is completely off limits. He slows to a walk, admiring the pretty neighborhood he’s wandered into, and then there’s a noise of surprise to his right.

“Derek!”

He startles, and realizes he’s walking right past Stiles.

“Stiles.”

“Sorry,” Stiles quirks a smile. “Mr Hale.”

Derek rolls his eyes, tightens his grip on Jack’s leash; Jack’s straining to bound up the lawn Stiles is sprawled across, and eventually Derek gives up and lets Jack go to him. One of them should. He stands on the sidewalk, looking at Stiles as he rolls to sit up and greet Jack.

“You just in the neighborhood?”

“I—I went for a run,” he says, frowning in confusion at where exactly he’s ended up.

Stiles laughs. “I can see why that would alarm you. Who even likes running?”

“You do, don’t you?”

“Nah,” Stiles stands, wanders over to him with Jack following excitedly. Stiles stoops to grab a battered tennis ball and tosses it back towards the house, Jack chasing after it happily. Stiles comes to a stop at the edge of the lawn, shrugs as he looks at Derek. “It was something to do after my mom died,” he says softly.

Derek feels his mouth part in surprise. “Oh. I didn’t—”

“’S’not something I advertise,” Stiles cuts in quietly. “Plus, everyone thinks I do it because I’m awesome at it, which is true.”

Derek curves a smile at him, and Stiles shoots him one back, dropping to a crouch to congratulate Jack on bringing the ball back before straightening and throwing it again.

“You had a good weekend?”

“My sisters have invaded my apartment,” Derek says darkly.

Stiles laughs. “They seem pretty cool to me. Must be nice, having a big family.” He looks wistful as he speaks and Derek feels suddenly guilty for not appreciating both of them more.

“It is, mostly. You wouldn’t believe the fights we used to get into over time spent in the bathroom, though.”

“Now that I can believe, attractive bunch like you, gotta take some work, right?”

Derek lifts an eyebrow at him. “Should I be warning you to stay away from my sisters?”

“No,” Stiles steps onto the sidewalk, and suddenly they’re _much_ closer. In the waning sunlight Stiles’ eyes are practically glowing, inviting, his mouth curled in a quiet smile. “Prefer their bossy brother.”

“I am _not_ bossy!” Derek objects, before clamping his mouth shut because dammit he’s not even supposed to be acknowledging _this_.

Stiles smiles again; slow and enchanting. “Yeah, you are,” he turns back towards the house. “See you tomorrow.”

Derek tries not to picture following him inside, crashing out on the couch with him and arguing over which Alien movie to watch. He tries not to picture the kissing that would start, finally getting his hands on Stiles’ chest, stripping him of his shirt and sucking purple bruises into the fair skin that would last for days. Carrying Stiles upstairs and being reprimanded for it. Having his way with Stiles until the sun is coming up, grey light creeping through the window and across Stiles’ back.

He swallows and glances at the police cruiser in the drive way. He fucking gets it, ok?

*

Scott insists on them watching old dodge ball games instead of practicing a few days later, in an attempt to keep them all in one piece. Isaac’s still sporting two black eyes, and Stiles has already made two panda jokes that led to him being punched sharply in the shoulder. Lydia sits at the front with her pen out, Allison beside her showing an unusual lack of interest as she scrawls notes to Scott she keeps tearing up instead. The boys settle somewhere in the middle of the room, and Derek props himself up on a desk at the back and flicks the video to play. He has the accounts for the gym to get finished, and Cora wants to work for him full time instead of just part time. If he’s honest he’s thrilled about it. His sister is fantastic with their patrons, enthusiastic but not overly pushy, and whilst Derek is out teaching she’s been manning the gym and their team amazingly well.

He’s just putting the finishing details to her new contract when he notices Scott is no longer watching the game, and is instead, drawing on Stiles’ arm. Stiles who is asleep, stretched out over the desk, ass barely touching the seat. He’s practically defying gravity, and Derek’s restraint.

“Scott,” he says warningly. “You wanted to watch these.”

“Yeah, but Coach—”

“If you want to be a good team Captain, you need to know how to lead properly.”

Scott considers him for a moment, then sighs and turns back to the screen.

Derek gets out of his chair, grabs the nearest heavy book and casually makes his way to behind Stiles’ chair. He then drops the book, and Stiles falls out of his seat altogether.

“Bah!”

The room at large cracks up, and Stiles glares at Derek, rubbing his elbow.

“Ouch!”

“Extracurricular or not, I expect you to pay attention in my classroom, Mr Stilinski.”

“Oh, I’ll pay attention alright,” Stiles mutters, scrabbling back to his chair, and twisting to watch Derek walk back to his own seat. Derek raises an eyebrow when he sees Stiles looking at him, and Stiles grins, shrugs and continues to stare.

In the background someone’s nose is broken and Isaac howls with laughter; Stiles doesn’t even twist round to see the replay.

“Stop it,” Derek murmurs.

“’M paying attention,” Stiles mouths back.

Derek resigns himself to having walked into that one, and decides to ignore Stiles, looking down at his papers. He counts to sixty and then glances back up, Stiles wiggles his eyebrows, his chin resting on his hands. He’s twisted over the back of his chair, again his body completely defying the laws of physics, and Derek wants to drag him from the room and see what kind of positions they can attempt in the bathroom.

Instead, he slides his papers together, shoves them into his bag, and leans back in his chair with his arms folded. Stiles beams, feet swinging round to scuff at the floor. Derek is now involved in an all-out staring match. He knows he should look away, or find something else to do, or even stop the tape but, he can’t bring himself to. He’s just looking after all.

The game ends, and Scott stands, nudging Stiles and making him jump and drag his eyes from Derek. Allison hits the lights, and they all turn to look at Derek expectantly.

“What?”

“That was your game,” Danny says, obviously trying not to laugh. “Do you have any thoughts on your position?”

“I do,” Stiles mumbles, and Scott elbows hum in the side. “Dude!”

“You guys lost,” Isaac says flatly. “Look,” he grabs the controller and rewinds the video to where Finstock is yelling at Derek. Erica’s in the background looking like she wants to put her hands round Derek’s neck. He grins at the memory.

“Oh, yeah.”

“You didn’t even win your own championship?!”

“Nope, Finstock never let it go, either.”

“I already told you this, dude,” Stiles sighs. “I gave you tons of research on the last ten teams this school has had.”

“I didn’t read all of it!”

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose. “Look, I can tell you where we went wrong; we can go and visit Finstock if you want; you can learn from our mistakes.”

Scott’s glaring daggers at him suddenly, and it’s actually more than a little discomforting.

“I have notes,” Lydia waves her notebook around. “Scott, do you want me to read them now?”

“Yes,” Scott turns to her enthusiastically. “Please! Give us something.”

“Dude, we’ve been on a winning streak for weeks, relax,” Stiles soothes, rubbing Scott’s shoulders.

“He’s right,” Allison says softly, easing Scott back into his chair. “We’ve got this.”

Derek watches them huddle together, talking over Lydia’s notes in low, determined voices, and feels something loosen in his chest he wasn’t aware was tight before.

*

“Hale!” Finstock scrunches up his face when he sees Derek at the door. “Do you need money?”

“No,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “I’m here to talk about the dodge ball team.”

“Oh, god, McCall and Stilinski, did Stilinski tell you about his dragons theory?”

Derek snorts. “Not yet.”

“Don’t listen to him; he’s got years before he can validate it. _Dragons_ ,” Finstock adds in a low voice, hobbling across the porch. “You want a drink you can get it yourself. Get me one, too!”

“Water?”

Finstock stares at him incredulously. “Do I look like a five year old? I’ve got beers in the fridge.”

“Coach, you’re on a lot of painkillers—”

“If I wanted your medical opinion I’d have told you to go to medical school instead of writing you that recommendation for NYU, _get me a beer_ , Hale.”

“A please would be nice,” Derek grumbles.

“I heard that! You always were a mutterer; used to drive me crazy. Now your distress is music to my ears.”

Derek glares at him for a moment and then trudges inside the house. Being a member of several school sports teams he’s familiar with the layout of the place. He’s been to get togethers Finstock’s held for parents, and to after parties where Finstock sat them down to watch all of their failures on the field and ate popcorn at the back.

“What’s taking you so long, you stop to eat?”

He shoves a beer at his Coach as he makes his way back outside and sits down beside him.

“Masel Tov,” Finstock waves his beer at him in thanks, and drains half of it in one pull. “You enjoying the teaching?” Before Derek can answer he throws his head back and cackles. “I wish someone could have filmed your first class for me. Derek Hale, teacher extraordinaire.”

“I’m not that bad,” he protests.

“No,” Finstock says sharply. “You were a very good Captain back in the day; I imagine some of that has helped you set fear into all those punks’ hearts. I hope you’ve kept my name a constant source of terror for them all. When I’m back next semester they won’t know what’s hit ‘em.” He looks gleeful, and Derek sympathizes for all the young sophomores that believed lacrosse would be a fun game when they signed up.

“I’ve been getting updates from McCall; he says you’re helping them out, anyway. They gonna win at that Championship?”

“Maybe,” he says cautiously.

“Don’t hedge with me, kid.”

“Yeah, probably. They’re good.”

“Yeah, they would have won last year if that Whittemore jackass hadn’t pansied out at the last minute. Lahey managing alright?”

“Isaac?”

“He’s the new kid, Derek,” Finstock says with a flat look at him. “Didn’t you read any of my notes?”

“Coach, your notes taught me a lot of new curse words, and absolutely nothing about any of your students.”

“Well, you can’t say I didn’t teach you nothing now, can you?”

“He’s alright, they all are, Scott’s a good Captain, very… enthusiastic.”

“Ah, he would be, good kid,” Finstock points at him. “If you tell him I said so I’ll break your leg.”

Derek grins. “No promises. You gonna come to watch the competition?”

“I suppose I better,” Finstock says darkly. “McCall and Stilinski were here last weekend raving about you; I need to remind them who their real boss is.”

“Not for long,” Derek points out and Finstock laughs.

“It’s a job for life, Derek. You’ve not stopped calling me Coach and you see me twice a week. Your sister’s doing wonders with my leg, by the way. She’s a good one; was a menace with a baseball bat.”

“I remember.”

“Whereas the other one.” Derek holds back a smirk at Finstock’s face as he talks about Laura. No matter what tactics he tried, Coach could never get Laura into sports. It drove him up the wall because she was good, she was athletic, she just could never be bothered. She’d sit on the bleachers whilst Cora ran track, or Derek and the lacrosse team practiced, and _read_. She did it on purpose.

“You getting along with it all, though?”

“Yeah, of course, nothing to worry about,” he promises.

“Huh, thought you’d have more trouble with Stilinski.”

He stills, and casually glances at his Coach, but there’s nothing suspicious in his expression. “Yeah?”

“That boy’s the reason I’m turning grey; he and McCall. The only reason I suggested dodge ball was because I could never get him to focus on anything else.”

“They’re not a problem,” he says finally.

“Good,” Finstock taps his beer against Derek’s. “They better win, or I’ll make them both go to summer school.”

Derek goes to laugh, and then realizes with a sense of dread that once the competition is over, and school is let out, he’ll have no reason to see Stiles at all.

It doesn’t sit well at all.

*

“In the face! In the face!”

“Stiles! You can’t rely on showy head shots if they’re not allowed at the competition,” Derek snaps.

Stiles sighs dramatically, catches the ball Danny throws back at him whilst looking positively murderous.

It’s Thursday afternoon, and they’ve been practicing since lunch. As seniors their classes are limited, as seniors with exams all over the place Scott’s team have been dropping in and out of practices, when and where they can.

By now Scott’s in the middle of a Bio exam, and Stiles and Danny are taking out nervous aggression on each other. Derek’s supposed to be marking tenth grade papers, and is instead watching Stiles shimmy across the floor in a victory dance when he successfully takes Danny out again.

“You go,” Danny says, collapsing on the floor next to Derek. “I don’t have the energy, and I’m beginning to fear for my cheekbones.”

Stiles is still in the middle of his twirling, and when he spins back to see Derek on the other side of the court, he quirks an eyebrow.

“You think you can handle it?”

Derek picks up the nearest ball and smashes it into the wall behind Stiles. “Yeah,” he says calmly. “I reckon so.”

Playing one on one is ironically much harder than it looks, especially if the person you’re playing with is half-assing it. Stiles continuously overthrows, sending the ball over Derek’s head and making him walk across the gym to retrieve it. He’s beginning to get frustrated when he spins round after one walk and sees Stiles blatantly checking out his ass.

He pauses, raises his own eyebrows and Stiles shrugs, glances up at the ceiling. “Gotta do something to keep myself occupied when you’re off collecting balls you don’t catch.”

“My catching skills are just fine; you’re the one that’s off target.”

“I dunno,” Stiles mimes bowling. “I’m a pretty good pitcher.”

“Yeah? You play much baseball?”

“Nope,” Stiles smirks. “But I’m open to a variety of athletic activities.”

“Huh.”

“Totally, and _completely_ open, to a lot of activities. Pitching, catching, screwing things in vigorously, plowing things, pounding things,” Stiles pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek and smirks at him.

“I get it,” Derek says in a hoarse voice. “You’ve actually not been watching a sports channel, but your average DIY channel.”

“Oh, I don’t watch tv, see, I have this newfangled thing called a _laptop_ —old people don’t totally get them, though.”

“You calling me old?”

Stiles grins and gestures at him. “If the shoe fits.”

Derek mutters something unflattering under his breath, and aims the ball at Stiles once he starts jogging again. It catches him in the side and Stiles squawks in surprise.

“Oh, so you did used to be good at this. I was getting worried the internet had _lied_ to me.”

“You stalked me on the internet?”

“Yep,” Stiles spins the ball on his finger, darts it back at Derek. “You’d be amazed at the kind of searches I do.”

“I’m sure how to style your hair into a bird’s nest is a fascinating article read.”

Stiles groans out a laugh as the ball hits him on the shoulder. “That was weak, comments about my hair? You have zero smack talk.”

“I’ll show you smack talk,” Derek huffs.

To their left someone clears their throat, and Derek catches the half flailed ball Stiles sends at him, caught off guard, and blinks at Lydia and Ethan.

“Ethan’s here to cheer Danny up, I’m here to practice, I have no idea what _you’re_ doing here but you’re done for now regardless,” she says pleasantly.

Derek manages to hand her the ball without bursting into flames of embarrassment and flees to the office. When he looks back, Stiles is watching him go, hands on his hips and mouth in a thin line.

He needs a cold shower, and some sort of rude awakening that reminds him he’s here to be a Coach, not flirt with underage impossibly attractive teenagers.

*

When Derek first bought the gym, it had been a dusty, dilapidated dingy space. He and Erica spent weeks clearing it out, knocking down two walls (with Boyd and Boyd’s father’s help), and creating a clean, minimal fuss style work out area. He’d been going for years, and when the owner had announced his plans to retire, Derek had laid out plans in front of his mother to buy it, refurbish it, and make it his own. He would have shown his father, but as an artist he was much more capable in telling Derek about what color would best provide the right atmosphere for his patrons. Derek’s mother, Talia, had agreed that Derek would be allowed to access some of his trust fund to make the business viable. She’d then insisted on purchasing an annual membership card and not been to the gym to work out since. She and Laura prefer to sit on the mats, and pretend to stretch for an hour or so whilst Cora and Derek work, and then they go to lunch.

His sisters, and Derek he’ll admit, all get their contrary nature from Talia.

Derek looks exactly like his father, and though they’re both similar in some ways, Derek has nothing on his dad’s easy charm, and relaxed attitude. Erica _loves_ him, and since she was a teenager she’s been treated like one of Derek’s sisters by the rest of his family.

They fit together well as a group; they’re loud and opinionated, enthusiastic and excitable. His dad is a steady rock at dinner, calmly asking Derek about work, or listening to one of his daughter’s dramatic stories. Derek has always been the quiet one. He’s not naturally a shy person, or afraid of speaking for himself; he just prefers to keep things private. He’s not prone to oversharing, or fits of pique. He suspects he was drawn to Erica and Boyd at school because Erica was the kind of company he was used to, and liked best. And Boyd was the exact opposite, a quiet force of strength and gravity.

Stiles is a contradiction in Derek’s small world. He can be the loudest voice in the room, almost overwhelming with his presence, and then at times somber and placid. Derek isn’t used to people like Stiles. He’s not sure how he let him get so under his skin from their very first meeting, but he has. He’s drawn to him. It’s vexing, and it makes him feel indignant, outraged. He’s constantly torn between the desire to push Stiles up against the nearest hard surface and have his way with him, and the one to sit him down and make him talk to Derek about anything.

Since Kate, the only person Derek was ever really serious about before, he’s not looked for anyone else. He’s fucked around, been on disappointing dates with people that don’t hold his interest, or where he isn’t what they expected. He knows what he looks like; he knows what people think when they eye him up in the checkout lines, or at diners, shopping malls. But, he’s not particularly easy going, he’s not fun, he doesn’t know how to make people laugh or to make them relax.

His father calls him an acquired taste, and always says that Derek deserves people in his life that know a fine cheese when they smell one.

Strange metaphors aside, he’s gotten used to his own skin over time. Derek is comfortable with who he is. He likes what he likes; he does what makes him happy.

Stiles, though. Stiles oddly, bizarrely, _frustratingly_ seems to want Derek for exactly who he is, and above all else, it’s confusing.

The trouble is, the more he learns about Stiles, the more he _wants_. He doesn’t just think Stiles is _attractive_ now, he _knows_ things about him, too. He craves Stiles’ laugh, and likes the way Stiles thinks. He appreciates the way Stiles is protective of his friends, knows just how to wind Lydia up, and tease Danny about his crush on Ethan. He likes the sly smile Stiles gets right before he sasses Derek in class, knowing it’ll get a rise out of him. He thrives on their banter, on the tiny, ghost touches. The way Stiles sucks on a pen is obscene, sure, but the random essays he hands in to Derek that aren’t even remotely on topic, and instead talk about how badass Spartan women were, or why Vettriano’s art is lazy are so much more interesting. It’s like he’s learning all these little pieces that fit Stiles together, and it’s infuriating because he can’t do anything about it. If they’d met in a bar, or at the gym, or even at the preserve he would have made a move. He would have wanted to fuck Stiles up against a tree, to hear the breathy noises of surprise he’d make, and feel his dexterous fingers clutching at Derek’s back.

He feels a little like he’s losing his mind.

He cuts off the treadmill he’s been running on, and Cora looks up from the desk as he pads over to her.

“You done?”

“Yeah,” he crashes onto the sofa by the door and throws an arm over his face.

“You were on there for a while.”

“Cora,” he says warningly.

“I’m not asking for you to pour your heart out,” she narrows her eyes at him, switches her computer off and stands. “I know you think you’re building yourself up for a fall, and I know you think we don’t take you seriously, but all jokes aside I’ve seen the way he looks at you, and it’s not just like he wants to fuck.”

Derek pulls his arm away and stares at her in shock. “I wasn’t—”

“You’ve been prettier than me since seventh grade, Derek, I know what you think of yourself. And,” she shrugs, mouth twitching into a smile. “You’re more than that, or I wouldn’t be friends with you. You’d just be that annoying, older brother I screen calls from.”

“I screen my calls from _you_.”

She snorts, scratching at his head as she stands behind him.

“You psyched you’re going to be spending all your time with your sister soon?”

“As opposed to before when it was just most of my time?” He twists to look up at her. “You sure this is what you want?”

“Hell yeah, I’m good at this, Derek. I love the physio, I love helping people heal, I love being the one that gets to see them stand again, and get strong again.”

“You’re great at it,” he says softly.

“Well, yeah. I had a good teacher, too.”

“Finstock speaks pretty damn highly of you, and that’s saying something coming from him.”

“I was talking about you, dumbass.”

“Oh,” he blinks at her in surprise. “Thanks.”

“Not that I think you should be making a career of the teaching thing in general,” she says with a grin. “But, I want to be here, I want to help expand this place into something really awesome.”

“You’ve already made it pretty great.”

“Duh,” she throws her bag over her shoulder, heading for the door. “See you at dinner Thursday?”

“Yeah,” he rubs his eyes. “Yeah, I think so. Depends, Scott wants the team to start having extra practices and the only time they could book the hall was five on a Thursday or first thing Tuesday morning. I think morning practices were vetoed.”

“Either way, don’t miss dinner; mom wants to hear all about the special team that’s got you all in a flurry. And about the nice boy Laura keeps telling her about.”

“I’m going to tell mom it was you and Laura that painted Peter’s car pink last year.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Derek flashes her a grin of his own, hitting the lights on his way out with her. “Try me.”

*

Allison is the one lingering at the end of Derek’s class one Tuesday morning. He throws his papers into the depths of his bag, and waves her forward.

“You ok?”

“You knew my Aunt.”

He stills, clears his throat and moves to wipe his comments off the board. “Yeah, briefly.”

“I—” she licks her lips. “I learnt a lot about my family this year, they’ve made some bad choices and their history is—they’ve been in with the wrong people... What I’m trying to say is, I’m not like her.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “I know you’re not. I had no idea you were related to begin with, and I’ve not judged you on it since.”

“I know that, and I appreciate it. I just wanted to say. I didn’t want it hovering over me with exams coming up.”

“Sure,” he gives her a tight smile, and she turns to leave. “Don’t leave McCall hanging all summer, though,” he adds and she looks back at him, startled. “He’s starting to look a little panicked every time he looks at you.”

Allison bites her lip, cheeks pinking up, and Derek wonders how she and Kate could even be related.

“Stiles and I have the same birthday, you know.”

He drops the eraser he’s holding, and swallows quickly. “Excuse me?”

“It’s next week.”

“Oh?”

“Scott’s doing a surprise thing for him; because of it being his eighteenth. But, we could do something in the morning too, right?”

“Saturday?”

“Yeah, we could have cake or something,” she smirks. “Cake at the gym.”

“Laura would like that,” he muses.

Allison nods and then hunches her shoulders. “Just something to think about.”

As if he needs encouragement to think about Stiles. He forgoes lunch, sits in the stuffy economics classroom and panics about the state of his life, and about whether or not it’s inappropriate to give Stiles a card.

*

Erica’s _baking_ when he gets home on Friday night, pushes her cheek up for a kiss and pats Derek’s own in return.

“You look happy,” she murmurs.

“You look completely out of your depth,” he retorts, grabbing a beer from the fridge.

“Boyd said it was simple enough.” She sighs and flicks at the recipe book. “How am I going to be a good wife if I can’t bake?”

“You’re already a good wife,” he says with a roll of his eyes, sitting up on the counter next to the oven. “You watch shit he likes, you make him laugh—”

“Give him really good head.”

“Please, Jesus, I don’t need to know that.”

“Like you didn’t already. We’ve been dating since I was fifteen; of course I know how to do it.”

“That wasn’t the point.”

“I bet Stiles is really good at giving head,” she adds thoughtfully and Derek chokes on his beer.

“I’m going to shower.”

Erica beams. “Were you suddenly hit with spank bank material?”

“I don’t know why I’m friends with such a lewd character.”

“Because I know you better than you know yourself, of course,” she says loftily, turning back to the recipe. “And I’m making your precious soul mate cupcakes.”

“He’s not my soul mate! That shit is BS,” he yells as he moves down the hall.

“What’s BS?” Boyd asks, appearing from their room, and Jack darts out to greet Derek enthusiastically. Boyd’s been on nights at the hospital and Jack’s taken to sleeping at the foot of the bed to get his Boyd time in.

Derek’s dog is a great big fucking softie.

“Derek’s life,” Erica shouts back from the kitchen.

“Oh,” Boyd claps Derek on the shoulder. “Things I have known since I was thirteen.”

“Fifty points!”

“Thank you,” Derek scowls over Erica’s crowing laugh. “That’s just what I needed.”

“The thing I don’t get?” Boyd pauses at the entrance to the kitchen, scratching his stomach. “Is if you’re not a real teacher, and he’s not even gonna be your student for long—”

“He still is now, though,” Derek points out, and Boyd waves a hand, continuing like he hasn’t heard him.

“—and nobody wants anything the other doesn’t want, is why you haven’t done anything about it yet. Life is short, man.

“Is that your profound way to say bang him, baby?” Erica asks from over his shoulder. “Are you finally on Team Derek Should Get A Sex Life?”

“I’m on Team Derek,” Boyd says firmly, giving Derek a serious look. “And Team I Need A Sandwich,” he adds, winking at him and kissing Erica’s forehead as he passes her to get to the fridge.

Primarily, Derek is not a romantic person. He was never serious about anyone before Kate, and he’s not been interested in getting serious with anyone since. Watching Boyd and Erica step around each other in the kitchen, gently ribbing one another and interrupting sentences with kisses would normally go over his head as something he’s used to, something he sees every day. He’s not under any sort of allusion that he could have this with Stiles; the kid’s eighteen, he’s not going to want to settle down with _Derek_. But, he does suddenly ache for something like what his best friends have. For an easy kind of understanding, and a constant interest in one another, a real and honest relationship.

He thinks Laura would call it growth.

*

It’s a toss up to say who is more excited by the slightly misshapen cupcakes at the gym the next morning. Laura has definitely been louder about her enthusiasm, but Stiles is practically radiating happiness. It’s infectious, and Derek finds himself smiling at Allison and wishing her a Happy Birthday, bumping his water bottle with Scott’s, and shaking his head ruefully at Isaac and Lydia who are _sharing_ a cupcake (they both wanted the last green one, Isaac suggested a split).

Derek slides to sit next to Stiles on the bench that lines one wall of the gym, and nods at the cupcake Stiles is devouring.

“Good?”

“Yeah, you make ‘em?”

“No, Erica did.”

“Can totally see you in an apron, though,” Stiles says with a grin, tongue darting out to lick icing off his thumb. Derek watches, hypnotized, and when he looks up, Stiles is looking right back at him.

Slowly, he pulls his thumb out with a wet pop, and then licks his lips. “You want?”

“Yes,” Derek says immediately. “Uh, want what?”

Stiles proffers a cupcake at him, and Derek takes it quickly. “Wait—” Stiles grabs his wrist and Derek freezes.

“What?”

“Having sugar in your system won’t suddenly make you _smile_ or anything, will it?”

Derek yanks his wrist back, glowering at Stiles. “I smile.”

“Sure.”

The look Stiles gives him is so fond Derek doesn’t know what to do with it, and so he stuffs the entire cupcake into his mouth. Stiles laughs raucously, and Scott bounds over to join them. Over their heads Derek can see Cora taking pictures on her cell, Erica going through some self-defense moves from a class she taught last year with Allison and Lydia, Isaac staring dreamily at Lydia, Laura and Danny deep in discussion over by the window, it’s a nice scene to look at.

Eventually, the team pack up to head out and Stiles thanks Erica profusely for the cupcakes as they go.

“Any time,” she coos, winking at him.

“They’re having a surprise party in my honor,” Stiles says with a grin at Scott’s retreating back. “I think the rest of these babies will go down nicely.”

“One can only hope,” Erica says with a determinedly innocent look on her face. Derek needs new friends.

“See you tomorrow?” Stiles directs at Derek hopefully, and Derek nods.

“Of course, Happy Birthday again.”

“Thanks,” Stiles smiles suddenly, wide and dazzling. “All grown up now,” he adds as he disappears through the doors.

“Don’t,” Derek says immediately, holding up a hand. Behind him he can practically hear his sisters and Erica deflate.

*

The entire team looks wan and exhausted when Derek arrives for the game the next morning. Allison is pacing, seemingly psyching herself up, clutching at a protein shake; Isaac is asleep on a bench, Lydia absently petting his hair and staring into space; Scott’s on the floor; and Danny is curled up over a chair. Stiles staggers out of the community hall’s bathroom looking haggard.

“I may throw up on you,” he warns Derek as he gets close. “Or die.”

Derek shakes his head grinning. “You’ll be fine, it’s just a hangover. Did you have a good time at least?”

“Yeah,” Stiles manages a tired smile. “Was nice of everyone to put it together, got kinda lonely by the end, though.” He casts a significant look at Derek, and Derek swallows, nodding shortly.

“You’ll never be lonely at college.”

“Maybe not,” Stiles’ gaze flickers over his face, and before he can say anything Derek cuts in.

“Lots of kids your own age, new friends, new people.”

Stiles scoffs, eyebrows climbing into his hairline. “Yeah, yeah, people my own age, huh? Can finally get rid of that V-card with some random hottie at a frat party; sounds super.”

Derek clamps his jaw shut and lets Stiles wander off to jump on Scott. He’s not thinking about Stiles being a virgin, or Stiles screwing around with strangers that don’t know him, or give a fuck about him. He’s not jealous, at all.

“Stiles, quit horsing around,” he snaps. “And Danny wake up! It’s nobody’s fault but your own if you’re feeling like crap, and you can’t afford to play sloppily. The competition is in a week; you guys need to be on your game.”

“Alright, alright,” Danny huffs, rolling to a stand and then flushing when he looks over Derek’s shoulder. “Oh fuck, I told him not to come.”

They all swivel to see Ethan climbing up the benches with his brother, and when he spots Danny he beams and waves.

“Nice,” Isaac mutters, punching Danny’s shoulder.

Danny hides his face in his hands for a moment, and Lydia leans over his back. “If he hurts you—”

“He won’t!” Danny hushes her. “And stop glaring at him, it took him six months to start talking to me, I don’t want him to chicken out now.”

“Seems like that’s going around,” Stiles drawls, heading over to the court.

Derek glowers at his back and nods at the rest of the team. “What are you waiting for? Kisses for good luck?”

Scott tiredly leans over and kisses Allison’s cheek anyway, and she flushes before straightening up. “Let’s kill them,” she says firmly.

“Don’t make a mess,” Derek warns.

Allison quirks an eyebrow at him. “No promises.”

He has to admit, he’s a little surprised at the veracity the team plays with considering he knows they were all up late the previous night, possibly drunk, in fact, most _definitely_ drunk. There’s a pause when Scott seems to have trouble getting up for a while, Danny looks like a drowning sailor on occasion, and Isaac has to flee the court to throw up twice, but _other_ than that. Derek’s pretty impressed.

They’re playing much better together as a team now that they’re aware of their own weaknesses, too. He feels like he has actually managed to have an input. He’s done something right.

At the end of the game, Stiles drops to the floor and starfishes out across the court. Scott makes an attempt to tug him up, mutters about calling him later, and follows Allison out front. Derek makes his way over to Stiles, kicks at his arm.

“You dead?”

“Maybe,” Stiles mutters in a surly voice.

“How’d you get here?”

“Allison drove.”

“You need a ride?”

“ _Nope_ ,” Stiles stands, gives him a forced smile and heads for the doors himself.

“Stiles, your house is right across town.”

“I need the fresh air,” Stiles yells over his shoulder.

Derek follows him through the doors, and pauses when he sees the rain Stiles is staring bleakly at. “It’s not out of my way,” he tries again.

“Fine,” Stiles sighs. “Thanks.”

He trudges after Derek, and Derek sighs inwardly when he sees the way his vest is starting to cling to his skin.

“Come on,” he calls out. “Daylight’s wasting.”

Stiles gives him a dark look and slams the door as he slides into the car.

“Watch it,” Derek huffs. “Just because you feel like death doesn’t mean you can take it out on my car.”

“Sorry,” Stiles murmurs, eyes focused on the window.

Derek sits looking at him for a moment, and then sighs again, starting the car. Stiles doesn’t even flinch at the Bryan Adams song that bursts on.

They pull up at Stiles’ after what has to be one of the longest, broodiest car journeys of Derek’s life, and he twists to look at Stiles again. When Stiles doesn’t respond he leans over, making Stiles jump, finally, and smacks open the glove compartment.

“Here,” he says gruffly, sticking the purple envelope in Stiles’ face.

Stiles looks at it suspiciously. “What is it?”

“It’s a birthday card,” Derek says exasperatedly, feeling his ears getting hot.

“Oh,” Stiles takes it from him slowly, face suddenly breaking out into a smile. It’s ridiculous how much Derek has missed it. “You—you wrote me an actual birthday card. You realize people don’t really do that anymore, right? You couldda just tweeted me.”

“I don’t have twitter,” Derek says, scrunching up his nose. “What would I say on it?”

“Derek is going to the gym, Derek is eating a salad, Derek is a sour patch.”

“I am not a sour patch, and you make me sound like I lead the most boring life!”

Stiles grins, hunching up a shoulder. “If the shoe fits,” his fingers slide along the envelope, opening it slowly. It’s just a random photograph of Jack Derek printed off and made Jack stick his paw on. Now he thinks about it; it’s kind of dumb. Stiles looks down at it, and his breath hitches before he traces his hand over where Derek’s written his name, and then up at Derek.

“Thank you.”

Derek ducks his head. “Sure.” He can’t bring himself to look up, and he hears Stiles sigh briefly, fleetingly touches Derek’s wrist and then climbs out of the car. “Stiles—” he jumps out after him and Stiles turns to look at him over the car.

“What?”

“It doesn’t—it’s just a card, ok? I didn’t know what else to say.”

“Nothing, you didn’t need to say anything else,” Stiles waves the card in the air, and then shoves it up his vest to prevent it from getting soaked. “It’s nice, thank you. I get it.”

“No, you don’t,” he blurts out incredulously, striding round the car. “You don’t get it at all.”

“I get that you think I’m too young for you, and that maybe you’re scared of having feelings for me but, you know what? You _do_. I know it, you know it, I’m pretty sure Erica knows it from the tips she gave me last week on how you like your freaking sandwiches cut.” _God dammit, Erica._

“You’re in high school,” Derek snaps. “I’m your Coach.”

“My Coach?! You weren’t there when I scored my first goal in lacrosse, you weren’t there when I did suicides for so long I projectile vomited all over Danny, you weren’t there when I started going the gym after school because I was sick of being the scrawniest person in the world—you’re not my Coach—you’re just some guy filling in for my actual Coach. A _person_ , a hot, annoying, bossy, surly, actively infuriating, sarcastic person that happens to be watching out for my dodge ball team, and—”

Derek cuts the distance between, fists his hand in Stiles’ vest, and kisses him. Stiles continues to try to talk for a moment and Derek kisses him harder, tries to say everything he can’t with it. Stiles’ hands slide up to clutch at Derek’s shoulders and pull him closer, the kiss still frantic and desperate. Derek cups his jaw with his free hand, runs his tongue along Stiles’ bottom lip, biting down briefly and making Stiles groan, arch into him. Stiles is kissing him back with equal intensity, fingers splaying out against his shoulder blades and then he’s digging them into Derek’s hair, tugging on it and making Derek shudder. He falls against the car, back sliding against the wet metal and Stiles leans into him.

When he pulls away, Stiles’ mouth is red and open in surprise. There are drops of rain falling from his eyelashes, and when he shifts Derek can feel him hard against his hip through the thin material of his shorts. He _wants_.

Stiles untangles one of his hands from Derek’s hair, rubs his thumb over his cheekbone. “Ok, I get it,” he says softly.

Derek flexes his hands where they’ve crept under Stiles’ vest, curled over his hipbones and sighs against his hand.

“This doesn’t change anything,” he says finally.

Stiles straightens up, fluffs at Derek’s hair once more before stepping away and readjusting himself, smirking when he sees Derek’s gaze fall to his crotch.

“Ok.”

“I’m going now,” Derek says firmly, snapping his eyes up to Stiles’ face.

“Ok.”

“I am,” he insists, forcing his legs to start moving.

Stiles snags a hand in his shirt and kisses him again. It’s dirtier this time, his tongue sliding against Derek’s, free hand drifting down his chest to slip under the waistband of his shorts and Derek catches his wrist, pulls away.

“I mean it.”

“Ok,” Stiles says again.

“Stop saying that.”

“No.”

“You’re ridiculous,” he huffs.

Stiles full on grins at him, face soaking and vibrant and beautiful. It’s almost angelic.

“I’m gonna go inside and jerk off now.”

The opposite of angelic. Pure evil.

He still watches Stiles walk inside, half bumping into his own car as he stumbles into the driver’s seat. Stiles appears at an upstairs window, pulls off his shirt, grins widely at Derek and then shuts the curtains.

Derek is uncomfortably hard the entire way home. And, uncomfortably out of his depth.

*

The upside of Derek having fooled around with a senior in high school is that it means Stiles is absent from school for the next three days owing to exams. The downside is that Derek actually _misses_ him. He keeps waiting to hear Stiles’ voice, or see him tumbling out of a classroom with Scott. School is fairly empty as it is with most of the senior class on leave, and Derek is already tired of punk fourteen year olds trying to sass him.

He can’t find his damn satchel at the end of the day, and he’s at the end of his tether. Harris had been sniggering to himself as Derek scoured the staff room, and Derek’s just about ready to punch something. He practically kicks the door off, shoving on his jacket, and walks straight into Stiles.

“Woah, hey, I figured you’d have missed me, but this is pretty excessive. Jumping my bones, Mr Hale I do declare—”

Derek clamps a hand over his mouth and feels Stiles’ lips curve into a grin beneath.

“What are you doing here?”

“I go to school here?” Stiles replies in a muffled voice. He licks at Derek’s palm, and Derek jerks his hand away, glancing up and down the corridor.

“I had an exam, we have practice, I’m secretly stalking you, pick one. What’s got your panties in a twist?”

Derek sighs. “I can’t find my bag. How did your exam go?”

Stiles shrugs, falls in to step beside him and bumps their shoulders together as they walk. “Alright, I guess, I’m a free agent, now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, last one,” Stiles grins again and Derek finds himself smiling back thoughtlessly. “So, when did you last have it?”

“Have what?”

“Your bag,” Stiles laughs.

“Oh, lunch?”

“Did you eat in the bathroom by yourself?”

“ _Funny_ , and no, I was in the art classroom,” he curses himself as he says so because Stiles’ face _lights_ up.

“Oh my god, do you miss us?”

“No.”

“You do! You _miss_ us! You were sitting in that art room like a sad little puppy, wishing we’d all come bursting in and shower you with love once again.”

Derek crowds him up against the wall and lifts an eyebrow. “Showering me with love? That’s what you all call it?”

“I think we could have been a lot worse,” Stiles murmurs, eyes going liquid as he leans into Derek.

A door bangs in the distance and Derek remembers where they are, what he’s doing and leaps away from Stiles. Stiles snorts and grabs his wrist, tugs him further down the corridor to the familiar classroom.

Harris is stalking towards them as Derek slips inside the door, and he finds himself holding his breath without knowing why.

“Oh my god,” Stiles whispers from over his shoulder. “You’re totally afraid of him!”

“I am not,” Derek hisses back, and then jerks back away from the glass when Harris walks past.

“Hmm, not bad close up,” Stiles says quietly, and Derek spins to see him staring at his ass.

“Stop being inappropriate.”

“It’s not inappropriate if it’s true.”

“That’s completely inaccurate.”

“Shut up and kiss me before practice starts.”

“Absolutely not,” Derek says incredulously. “I’m supposed to be finding my bag.”

“It’s over by the desk,” Stiles waves a hand before catching it in Derek shirt and tugging him close. “You can get it in a minute.”

“Five,” Derek counters against his mouth.

“Fine by me,” Stiles mumbles back, already leaning against the filing cabinet behind them and pulling Derek with him.

He fucking _knows_ this is against every rule in the book, he knows he should get his bag and make Stiles go to practice; but he won’t. What he wants to do is kiss Stiles until he’s dizzy from it. Stiles kisses back like he’s been craving it just as much, hands everywhere and hips pushing into Derek’s. He slides his hands down Stiles’ back, briefly dipping his fingers under Stiles’ waistband before hauling him up against the cabinet.

“Woah, ok, neat trick,” Stiles says laughing, winding his legs around Derek’s waist and kissing him harder. Derek rocks their hips together and Stiles throws his head back, slamming it into the cabinet and letting out a strangled moan. Derek gives in to the temptation to lick up his neck, biting down and then sucking until Stiles is panting in his ear. He pushes at Derek’s jaw and Derek goes with it, finds his mouth and kisses him fiercely.

“Oh,” Stiles grinds his hips down, nails scraping along the back of Derek’s neck. “Oh, _fuck_.”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, images of Stiles naked, Stiles writhing underneath him, over him in, inside of him. “ _Christ_ ,” he blurts out and bites at Stiles’ chin, snapping his hips to further the friction.

“Stiles, I prefer Stiles,” Stiles’ breath hitches even as Derek laughs against his cheek, and he squeezes his legs tighter around Derek. “God, come on, we’re gonna be late.”

“Bossy,” Derek mutters, freeing one of his hands to palm at the front of Stiles’ jeans.

“I—” whatever Stiles was about to say dies on his lips, and his mouth falls open as he jerks against Derek’s hand. “Oh,” he bites his lip and Derek kisses him again, rubbing his hand harder against the outline of Stiles’ dick. “Shit, _oh_ , _oh_.”

“Quiet,” Derek murmurs and Stiles laughs.

“You be quiet! _Fuccckkkk_ ,” his whole body shudders and it catches Derek off guard, makes him thrust his hips faster as Stiles comes, and Derek goes tumbling after him.

It’s not exactly a shining moment of sexual prowess for Derek, but he can’t really bring himself to give a fuck. Stiles’ heart is beating a mile a minute against his chest, and when Derek lowers him slowly to the ground he smiles so openly, and so widely, it makes Derek’s breath catch.

“You ok?”

“Duh,” Stiles trails a hand across his face, and unconsciously he leans into it. “Are _you?_ ”

“Yeah,” he says gruffly, turning to kiss Stiles’ palm and then stepping away to get his bag.

“Oh, shit I can’t walk to the gym like this,” Stiles complains.

Derek huffs a laugh, pulling off his shirt and Stiles whistles. “Round two already? Dude, I may be eighteen, but even I need a minute.” He whips the shirt at Stiles’ head and then drapes it over his bag.

“You’re not the only one about to do a goddamn walk of shame, idiot.”

“Wait—” Stiles puts a hand to his chest. “A walk of shame?”

“Not like that,” Derek assures him, aware they’re standing in front of the glass again and taking Stiles’ hand, carefully holding it beneath the door frame. “Turn of phrase.”

Stiles is quiet for a moment, and Derek sways into his space. “I mean—this is—”

“I get it,” Stiles says softly. “Don’t worry about it. But, you should really buy me dinner first next time.”

Derek feels his heart rate ratchet up again. “Next time?”

“Yes, and you should definitely be shirtless.”

“I’m sure we can arrange at least some of that,” he agrees, trying to keep his tone casual.

“All of it,” Stiles replies firmly.

Derek is hapless to do anything but grin stupidly at him for a solid minute and a half, before Stiles’ phone starts buzzing and an agitated Scott demands to know what’s taking him so long.

Danny jabs at the extremely obvious bruise forming on Stiles’ neck when he rolls into practice five minutes after Derek. Stiles flushes and tells him to go to hell. Derek resists the urge to touch it, to add another one. It doesn’t help that Stiles spends all of practice messing with it which makes it all the more distracting.

“So, we’ve booked a mini bus to get us to the hotel on Friday morning,” Lydia informs Derek at the end.

Derek nearly bites his tongue. “A what—a hotel?”

“Yes, the competition is like a whole day’s drive away,” Scott glares at him. “I gave you an itinerary last week!”

“Right,” he says quickly, thinking back to the pile of papers that are buried under wedding magazines in his apartment. “And I have read it, and agree with your plan being the correct course of action.”

Scott narrows his eyes at him. “You’re the worst Coach in the history of Coaches, you know that, right?”

Derek grins. “Technically by Friday I won’t be your Coach anymore, Finstock’ll be back next year, the semester’s over.”

“Look,” Danny jumps in before Scott can say anything else. “If you want us to pay you—”

“He’s screwing with you,” Stiles says from where he’s lounging on the benches behind them.

Danny sighs and mutters something under his breath, Lydia hadn’t even looked phased to begin with, and in actuality only Scott looks put out.

“Why would you do that?”

“For fun,” Derek states, clapping him on the shoulder. “You pick a name for the team yet?”

“Yeah, it’s gonna be Derek Hale Sucks Ass.”

Stiles falls off the bench.

*

“Please, Derek, please!”

“No.”

“Pleeeeassseeeee.”

“Leave me alone,” he says flatly, shutting the door to the bathroom.

“Derek, you open the door this instant.”

“Making your voice sound like mom’s won’t make me leap to obey you, Laura.”

“Derek, leave Laura, just take me!”

Laura screeches in outrage. “Cora!”

“I’ll tweet you every half an hour.”

“That’s not the same!”

“Both of you go away!”

“What’s going on here?”

Derek smacks his head against the door when he hears Erica’ voice join the fray.

“Derek’s taking the dodge ball team to that competition tournament thing this weekend, and he won’t let us go.”

“Oh, you can drive with us, we’re leaving when Boyd gets up on Friday afternoon.”

Derek swings open the door again, staring at Erica aghast. “You’re doing what?!”

She shrugs, slinking under his arm to grab her mascara. “You didn’t think we were actually going to miss seeing you as a bona fide Coach, did you?”

“I’m not their Coach anymore,” he replies weakly.

“Either way, I’m basically going to watch that Stiles Stilinski run up and down a court, and doubtless you are, too.”

“We’ve been training with them for weeks,” Cora persists. “We want to come and cheer them on.”

“You—” Derek sighs. “Fine. But, you’re getting your own rooms.”

“Don’t you want to share and stay up late braiding each other’s hair and telling ghost stories?”

He stares stonily at his sister, and she smirks, pats his cheek. “We’ll get our own room, bro.”

“Don’t forget to pack condoms,” Laura says airily, heading into the kitchen and leaping at Boyd. “If you’re too chicken to buy them, you’re too chicken to have sex, remember!”

Derek feels all the blood leave his face. Holy shit. He might actually be having sex. With someone he’s wanted for weeks, and can now actually have sex with.

Sex. With Stiles.

He slams the bathroom door again, and Laura cackles in the background.

*

“I hate everything about mornings,” Stiles whines as he clambers onto the mini bus, sliding into the front seat next to Derek.

“I hate _you_ ,” Isaac grumbles from where he’s trying to bury his face in Lydia’s shoulder.

“Now _that_ is a blatant lie, Isaac Lahey.”

“Shut up and put some music on,” Scott groans from the back. “I want to go back to sleep!”

“You realize in the real world you’ll have to get up this early every day, right?” Derek points out, glancing over his shoulder at Scott.

“Not if he works as an exotic dancer,” Stiles says brightly.

“They work in the day, too.”

Stiles turns to beam at him. “Huh, you got much experience with exotic dancing? I bet you’re pretty good with a pole.”

A pillow hits him on the back of the head before Derek can, and Stiles twists to glare at Scott.

“What?” Scott says crossly. “At least save it until I’m asleep.”

Derek flushes because shit, he’s still technically behaving as their Coach right now. It’s one thing to be looking at Stiles, or at the curve of his neck right in Derek’s face currently—so close he could lean forward and teeth at the bruise still visible from Wednesday—but, it’s another to do just that. Irritated, he starts the van up and Stiles fiddles with his iPod dock.

“Nothing with rap in it,” he warns.

“Oh, dude, I had the perfect Wiz Khalifa song for you all set up—”

“No rap.”

Stiles flicks on the playlist and Macklemore bursts into song. Derek clutches at the steering wheel tightly, and questions his taste in men.

As they pull out onto the freeway, Stiles drops his hand to brush against Derek’s where he’s resting it on the seat, his eyes flickering like he’s fighting sleep. Derek holds his breath, twitches his fingers against Stiles’, and Stiles catches them, laces them through his. His eyes stay closed, but he’s smiling and Derek squeezes his hand.

He and Matt switch off at a service station some six hours in, and Derek settles with his hoodie curled up against the window, ready to catch some shut eye. He cracks open one eye when he feels someone sit down next to him, and looks at Stiles questioningly.

Stiles shrugs, finds his hand again. “I was enjoying that.”

Derek hesitates, glancing around to see the rest of the team either asleep or gazing out of the window. He curls his fingers back around Stiles’ and drifts off to Stiles drawing patterns on his arm with his free hand.

Lydia and Scott go to sign them in once they arrive at the competition, and Stiles bounces around nervously outside. Derek wants to reassure him, to rub his shoulder and tell him to calm down. He’s aware of the crowds, though, of Finstock arriving, and the rest of the team already conscious of _something_ going on, and it makes him jittery. He sits on the low wall outside the sports center, shrouded in shadows and keeps an eye on Stiles anyway—in case he trips and cracks his head open or something, obviously.

“We’re playing at eleven,” Lydia announces as she strolls back out into the sunshine.

Danny looks up excitedly. “Does that mean we get a lie in?”

“Is your boyfriend staying in your room tonight?”

“No, because you said he wasn’t allowed to,” he grumbles.

“Exactly,” she says crisply.

“ _You’re_ rooming with Isaac.”

“I most certainly am not.”

“You are! I heard you trade with Allison on the bus.”

“I just wanted to have some time to talk to Scott—”

“Woah, hey,” Stiles interrupts. “Where the hell was I gonna sleep?”

“Don’t even go there, Stilinski,” Lydia huffs and an appealing flush appears on Stiles’ cheeks, before he glares at Derek like it’s Derek’s fault.

Which, perhaps technically it is.

“Why does Danny get his own room in the first place?”

“Because I’m better than you,” Danny says loftily.

“Enough,” Derek cuts in. “You’re supposed to be a _team_ , a team that likes each other. It doesn’t matter who’s in what room. Why don’t we go and check out the court?”

“Good idea, Coach,” Scott says brightly before screwing up his face. “Or, do I call you Derek now?”

“Whatever makes you more comfortable,” Derek deadpans.

Scott scowls at him and heads for the doors, everyone trailing after him.

“I’m kinda fond of _Mr Hale_ personally,” Stiles murmurs in Derek’s ear as he passes, and Derek feels his face get hot as his mind conjures up images of Stiles spread across his desk and panting out his name just like that.

“Pack it in,” he shoots back.

“You first.”

He half falls into the door, tripping over his own feet, and Stiles catches his arm, steadies him smirking.

“Shut up,” he huffs, and strides ahead to where the court is, the heat from Stiles’ hand like a brand on his skin.

Scott and Stiles examine the court, discussing their best options under their breath, and Lydia takes measurements. Derek tosses a ball with Isaac and Allison, head somewhere else completely as he thinks about what’ll happen when the competition ends, and they win, and everyone goes their separate ways.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to have _sex_ with Stiles; it’s that it won’t just be sex for him. He wants all sorts of things with Stiles, and Finstock’s words about the summer are ringing in his ears. Stiles is going away, Stiles is going to college, Stiles won’t live in Beacon Hills anymore. Derek won’t bump into him at the preserve, or be able to look up and find Stiles in any room at any time in thirty seconds. He’s gotten used to it, he craves more of it, and it’s all totally slipping away before he’s had a chance to try and keep it.

“Earth to Derek,” Allison snaps her fingers in his face.

“Hmm?”

“We’re going to dinner, you coming?”

“No, I said I’d meet my sisters,” he glances briefly at Stiles— who’s lingering at the side of the court with the rest of the tea— and then away again before he caves and goes with them.

“Later,” Isaac mutters, shoving the ball at his chest. Derek stands clutching the ball dumbly as they retreat.

“You’re such a fucking idiot,” Laura groans into her take out box an hour later.

Derek throws a chopstick at her head, and she bats it away, frowning at him. “Now is not the time for games, Derek. Now is the time for putting yourself out there.”

“When was the last time we had dinner and she _didn’t_ lecture me?” he asks Cora morosely.

“About fifteen years ago,” she says with a snigger.

Laura abandons her box of rice and clambers over the bed to grab Derek’s face.

“You’re touching me,” he says flatly. “I don’t like it when that happens.”

“I think you’re being a chicken shit, and you’re going to constantly find reasons to push this boy away until he finally _goes_.”

“Leave him alone,” Cora chides. “If he wants to miss out on the chance to be with someone he actually likes, that’s his decision.”

“Thanks a lot,” he snaps.

There’s a bang on the door, and Derek’s heart leaps, and then remembers Stiles is at dinner and Erica’s sailing through the door as Cora opens it.

“Cannot _believe_ the receptionist wouldn’t give me a key to your room; what does she think I’m going to do; steal all your overly baggy sweats, and tight t-shirts?”

She sits down cross legged on the bed, and grabs Derek’s half eaten chicken noodles. “Boyd’s at the pool, says to go find him if Laura starts getting too mean.”

Derek really does love Boyd.

“I’m not being _mean_ ; I’m being loving in my own way,” Laura says briskly, wiping nonexistent crumbs off her leggings. “And I have work to do.” She stands and kisses Derek’s cheek. “I love you.” She bends to kiss Cora’s and Erica’s. “You two I’m moderately fond of.”

“You’re no longer a bridesmaid,” Erica returns sweetly.

“Please, that would throw your whole table plan,” she says dismissively as she sails out the door.

“Remember when she lost her voice in fourth grade?” Derek sighs.

Cora laughs so hard she chokes on a prawn and Erica bashes her on the back.

By the time they’ve gotten through all the late night tv, Derek’s almost forgotten about dodge ball completely. That is until he goes to get ready for bed and realizes he’s absently packed Stiles’ shirt instead of one of his own. He pulls it over his head, enjoying the feel of the soft, worn cotton, and the fact it still vaguely smells like Stiles.

He’s dealt with repressed feelings in the past; he avoided talking about Kate for nearly a year despite his sisters, and Erica needling him. He can pretend a problem isn’t there if he looks away from it for long enough.

He just can’t seem to stop looking at Stiles for very fucking long at all.

*

Breakfast is a subdued affair. The team is more nervous than Derek’s ever seen them before. Stiles is jiggling his legs under the table and Derek rests a hand on his knee, more to stop him shooting off his chair and into the ceiling than for anything else, but after a moment Stiles drops his hand and squeezes his fingers tightly.

“Ok,” Scott says into the silence. “Maybe we should go do something to distract ourselves before the game.”

“Absolutely not,” Lydia dismisses firmly. “The chances of you or Stiles running into something and causing yourself bodily injury greatly go up if you _move_.”

Isaac snorts and bites into his apple, gazing at Lydia fondly and Stiles opens his mouth to object and then shrugs. “Point.”

“So, we’re just gonna watch all the other teams annihilate each other?”

“Yes,” Allison says crisply. “We can make notes of potential weaknesses, see who’s right and left handed, etcetera.”

Scott nods. “ _Yes_ , good thinking!”

“You don’t just love me cos I’m pretty, honey,” she says lightly, and Scott rests his chin in his hands and smiles at her fondly.

“I do love you a lot.”

Allison’s fork clatters onto her plate, Isaac misses biting into his apple and bites his hand, and Danny has a stray piece of scrambled egg hanging from his mouth. Stiles’ fingernails start digging into Derek’s skin painfully. Nobody moves, Derek himself feels suddenly, strangely tense.

“I love you, too,” she says after a moment, staring at her hands. Stiles’ fingers relax, and the table collective breathes out a sigh of relief.

“That’s good,” Scott says happily. “I really wanted to kiss you after we win tomorrow.”

Allison reaches over Isaac and kisses Scott right there and then. Isaac slides back in his chair, bitching about nobody respecting his ability to breathe, and Allison puts a hand in his face.

Stiles clears his throat, letting go of Derek’s hand and Derek tries not to feel suddenly bereft. “Now that that’s cleared up, do you think we could go watch some people get their faces smashed in?”

“Fuck yeah,” Danny enthuses, reaching up to high five with Stiles.

Finstock waves them over to a prime seating area, neon green cast like a beacon in the crowds. He’s hushed by a referee for heckling, and when Scott’s team are up to play he tells them if they don’t get through to the finals the next day, he’ll find a way to make their lives hell over the summer.

“Don’t test me, McCall; I have the number for the principal of summer school on speed dial.”

Scott looks pale but determined as he draws them all in for a last moment together. When they break away, Stiles glances up at Derek and he fixes him with a determined _don’t screw this up_ look. Stiles sticks his tongue against the inside of his cheek in an obscene gesture, and Derek pulls the program over his face for a moment.

“Sports competitions are my favorite,” Laura sighs happily, sitting down beside him with a huge tray of nachos and a massive coke.

Finstock glares at her. “You could have done great things, Hale.”

“I _do_ do great things, Coach,” she returns simply. “I put bad people away, tell me did I mis-read the fact you have unpaid parking tickets? That’s a serious fine headed your way, you know.” She bites down on a chip and Finstock glowers as she beams at him.

“Coach, how’re you feeling?” Cora asks as she sits down on Laura’s other side.

“God, all three of you at once,” Finstock scrunches up his nose at them. “I’m suddenly feeling a little nauseous.”

“Hey Coach,” Erica greets, appearing with Boyd.

“What is this? A reunion?”

“’S’up Coach.”

“You I liked,” Finstock says, pointing at Boyd. “You can stay.”

Boyd nods. “Everyone says that.”

The whistle blows on the court and Finstock tries to leap out of his seat to yell, and promptly stumbles into Derek. “God dammit!”

It’s a good start.

“Look at that boy’s arm power,” Laura crows as she watches Isaac make a particularly deadly volley across the court. “Oh mama.”

“Laura,” Derek grits his teeth.

“Hit him in the face,” Erica yells over him. “The face, McCall, aim for the face!”

A wild shot from the opposition takes Allison out, and she stalks to the side looking furious. Danny leaps up to catch a high throw, tags her back in, and she takes out the boy who’d hit her with a vicious toss at his ribs.

Derek is not normally a particularly nervous person; but watching these kids who’ve trained so hard, and wormed their way under his skin and into his life; he’s practically sweating for them.

Stiles turns his back to catch a ball aimed at Lydia and Lydia yells at him as he jogs off to the side. Derek stands, waiting for Stiles to look up, and when he does he mouths _cut it out_. It’s one thing for Stiles to take hits for his team in practices, or at games that don’t really count, but this is completely different. The time will come when they need Stiles to be on the court, and he’ll have taken a dumb shot that might have been caught or gone wide and helpless on the side. Stiles rolls his eyes, but nods shortly, wincing as Scott takes a brutal hit to the side.

It comes down to only Isaac and Lydia on the court. They play seamlessly together; Lydia in her element on the court, and Isaac a seemingly constant source of strength for her. Within less than two minutes Scott’s back in the game, followed by Allison, and it’s all over.

Laura upends the last of her nachos to stand, cheering like a lunatic, and Derek can’t bring himself to be mortified as the old man in front of them turns to glare, he’s too busy grinning and clapping himself.

The entire group goes to a late lunch, save for Matt who wants to stick around the games and take photographs; he’s an aspiring sports photographer apparently, Derek wasn’t really listening when Matt told him. And they’re as loud and raucous as usual. Derek sits between Danny and Finstock, toes casually bumping against Stiles’ all through the meal.

“We should go out tonight and celebrate,” Scott suggest. “Blow off some steam.”

“ _Nobody_ is celebrating, and nobody is staying out late,” Lydia says vehemently. “We have championship semifinals and a final tomorrow afternoon.”

“But—”

“I agree with Lydia,” Stiles says suddenly, rubbing his foot against Derek’s calf. “We should be well rested—”

“I don’t think anyone believes _you’d_ be getting any rest,” Lydia says sweetly, and Stiles sticks his spoon in his mouth, glowering at her.

“Bed at nine for all of you,” Finstock yells, oblivious to Lydia’s comment and to Derek’s mortification.

Derek winds up spending most of the afternoon listening to Finstock wax nostalgic about teaching, and regrets allowing his Coach to have any liquor at lunch. They sit in the hotel bar until Derek claims he’s going to bed, and heads for the pool. He’s feeling restless, antsy and he doesn’t know what he’s going to do tomorrow evening when he and Stiles part ways. He’d felt _ridiculously_ guilty as Finstock had clapped him on the shoulder and thanked him for covering over the semester. He’d almost, _almost_ blurted out that he shouldn’t be thanked, he should probably be arrested.

He feels trapped about the entire situation; if he goes with the way he feels, he could have the chance at something meaningful with Stiles, something _important_ , or he could walk away and not think about what it could have been, and pretend the law breaking and the fooling around was just that. He doesn’t know if he can put himself out there, only to be shot down if Stiles only wants some summer fling that came with the fun of it being frowned upon.

He’s getting himself in knots, and when he gets to the pool he’s almost unsurprised to see Stiles floating around in the deeper water. It’s as if Laura pays the universe to make sure Derek has to face his problems head on these days.

He moves round to stand over him and Stiles opens his eyes slowly, a smile creeping onto his face.

“Well, hello there.”

“You’re supposed to be resting; I heard Lydia give strict orders.”

“What Lydia doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

“I imagine there’s very little Lydia doesn’t know,” Derek says drily, sitting down on the edge.

Stiles swims up to him and grabs hold of his calves. “You might as well go all in, dude.”

“I’m building up to it.”

“Rip the band aid off,” Stiles splays his hands out over Derek’s knees, trailing them higher up his thighs and Derek can see goose bumps erupting on his skin wherever Stiles’ fingers trace. “Take the plunge; boldly go where no man has gone before.”

“I think you’re being a little dramatic.”

“Am I?” Stiles looks up at him, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth and Derek feels his mouth go dry. “To clarify, I was using metaphors about jumping into a pool to subtly tell you I would be open to this,” Stiles’ hand ghosts over where Derek’s cock is beginning to take interest. “Being less of an idea and more of a thing that we do, _repeatedly_.”

Derek clears his throat. “Yeah, I got that.”

Stiles lifts his eyebrows expectantly. “Then are you in?”

They gaze at one another for a moment, and then Derek drops into the water, resurfaces shaking water out of his eyes.

Stiles pushes off from the side and heads towards the far end. “Race you!”

“You’re already half way across the pool.”

“So, fight for the win!”

Derek doesn’t catch up. When he reaches the shallow end he slides over to where Stiles is catching his breath, frames his head with his arms on the tiled edged. “Cheater,” he huffs.

“Gotta learn to fight dirty if you wanna be on top,” Stiles crows.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, you think you can manage it?”

Stiles is trailing his hands up and down his sides under the water, biting at his lip as he smiles at Derek, and Derek is done second guessing himself, or waiting for another reason they can’t do this. He just wants, even if he only gets it for one night.

He drops a hand to wind round Stiles’ back and twists so that he’s against the wall, pulling Stiles into his lap. Stiles beams like Derek’s just announced it’s fucking Christmas and leans down to close the distance between them, kissing him sweetly. Considering their position it’s actually pretty chaste at first. Unlike their previous kisses it’s slow, languorous, like they’ve got all the time in the world. He likes the noises Stiles makes, the feel of his hands stroking over his shoulders and the tiny curve of his mouth that matches Derek’s. Stiles tastes like chlorine, and something else entirely Stiles underneath and Derek licks into his mouth, trying to get more of it over the slight tang of the pool water.

Stiles groans, wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck and pushing their chests together. His skin is slick and warm in contrast to the water and Derek grips his back tighter to keep him close. He’s so freaking turned on, Stiles driving his hips down and making him jerk up into him with no rhythm, no finesse at all. It’s almost like _Derek’s_ the one back in high school. Their wet shorts are taut, helping create a satisfying friction that’s sending coils of pleasure round his body and he gasps into Stiles’ mouth, feeling drunk on all the different sensations.

“You gonna let me touch this time?”

“Do you want to?”

Stiles pulls away, rolling his eyes. “No, I’m totally here against my will,” he rolls his hips and Derek feels his cock brush against his stomach. “I want to,” he says insistently. “I’ve wanted to put my hands on you since the moment you walked into that freaking classroom, and every moment since. I’ve thought about _you_ and the things we could do together pretty much constantly all term,” he trails his hand down Derek’s chest, stopping to scrape at one of Derek’s nipples making him bite his own lip unthinkingly. “I want this,” Stiles continues, hand slowing in its journey as it reaches Derek’s shorts, and he can feel his heart pounding, everything in him waiting for that final moment, _wanting_ it. “Do you?”

“Christ,” he says hoarsely. “Yeah, of course I do.”

Stiles grins at him, leans forward to kiss him again as he dips his hand lower, and Derek can’t help but squeeze his eyes shut in surprise at how _good_ it feels when Stiles’ long fingers finally wrap around his dick.

“Wait,” he breaks away, resting his forehead on Stiles’ shoulder for a second.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Stiles groans, his hold tightening and making Derek squirm because seriously, _fuck_.

“Not here,” he growls out and hauling Stiles up onto the tiles.

Stiles punches out a startled laugh, and it rings around the room making Derek’s skin tingle.

“Come on,” he says hurriedly, grabbing Stiles’ hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Most commonly used phrase in movies,” Stiles mutters almost to himself.

“Fifty points,” Derek replies, smile stretching out before he can stop it. Stiles twists to kiss him again and they stumble into the changing room, hands clamoring and touching everywhere they can.

“Where’s—where’s your stuff?”

Stiles waves an arm towards the left and Derek tries to direct them in the direction as Stiles mouths at his neck. He bites down and Derek slips on the tiles, both of them slamming into the lockers.

“Pretty sure I’ve seen porn that starts like this,” Stiles muses. He digs his thumbs against Derek’s hipbones, scraping his nails gently down his pelvis. “Though, you’re definitely hotter than most of the participants.”

“Most?”

Stiles rolls his eyes, scratches a little harder as his fingers travel over Derek’s lower back. “Fine, all of them. You’re hotter than the sun, and I am but a lowly worshipper.”

“Think you’re underestimating your own appeal,” Derek mumbles, kissing Stiles where he can reach. “You’ve been driving me crazy for weeks.”

“I know,” Stiles says simply. He gives Derek a wicked grin and then spins to grab his shirt and towel from the locker behind. “That was the plan,” he says airily.

“Well it fucking worked,” Derek huffs.

Stiles turns back, looking suddenly, for want of a better word, adorable with his shirt hastily tugged on and his hair mussed up. “I didn’t _know_ that, though. I didn’t know you were, you know, _interested_.”

“I wrote you a birthday card, I—” Derek can feel the questions bubbling up before he can stop them. “I didn’t know what you wanted from _me_. I thought you were doing it to fuck with my head, like I was some sort of challenge because I was your _teacher_. I thought maybe I was just…”

“Appealing because you were off limits?”

“ _Yes_.”

Cautiously, Stiles curls his arms around Derek’s shoulders, smiling fondly at him. “At first I did it because you were hot. You are, I’m not gonna lie. But, there are a lot of hot people out there,” Derek scoffs and Stiles tightens his grip. “I will probably be biased in that I find you hotter than all of them, forever, but, let’s not worry about that because I certainly don’t. I _like_ you, Derek Hale. I like that you bitch about your sisters but you light up around them, and you obviously care about them. I like that no one else thinks you’re funny, but I think you’re hilarious, and you do it almost always by accident.”

Derek glares at him, still somehow swaying into Stiles’ space, regardless.

“I think you’re kind, smart as fuck—though, you know nothing about economics. I really have no idea what Finstock was thinking picking you to cover for him—actually, I do, he was probably looking for ways to torture all of us—and you’re thoughtful and you wrote me a fucking _birthday card_. You got your _dog_ to sign it, honestly, dude, most adorable thing I’ve ever seen anyone do, ever. Stop blushing it’s true! And I like the fact you put up with my shit, you can give it back and you don’t think I’m nuts, or weird, you just get it. I could write you a nice, long list of things I like about you if you want.”

“No,” Derek says grudgingly, his face burning. “You,” he clears his throat. “You made your point.”

“You don’t just want _me_ for my lithe body, do you?” Stiles’ eyes go wide and dramatic. “Because though I’m all for some action,” he grinds his hips against Derek’s, wiggling his eyebrows briefly before his face goes serious. “I kind of want to keep you. Only if you want,” he adds. “If you’re interested, at all. In me. I mean. This. If I’m coming on too strong, or freaking you out then we can just go back to uh, acquaintances that run into each other sometimes?”

Derek doesn’t know where to start. So, he leans forward and cups Stiles’ face, kissing him gently. “I’m interested,” he says after a moment. “In all of it.”

“Oh, _good_ ,” Stiles breathes out and leaping at him. Derek laughs, grabbing his own shirt as they tumble towards the exit. Stiles gives him space to pull it over his head and then slides up against his back, hands slipping under his shirt and petting his stomach. “You got your own room, right?”

“Duh,” Derek says incredulously. “Who would I room with, Matt?”

Stiles laughs, hooking his chin over Derek’s shoulder as they walk to the elevator. “I wouldn’t fault you if you wanted to share with Danny. Everyone loves Danny.”

“Danny has a boyfriend that’s been known to get violent with a hockey stick.”

“I’d like to see that fight,” Stiles says thoughtfully. “Maybe throw some mud on you.”

Derek turns and backs Stiles into the elevator, kissing his jaw.

“Or, some Jell-O. Oh! Or—”

“Or you could shut up about picturing Ethan covered in Jell-O when I’m kissing you.”

“Ugh,” Stiles scrunches up his nose. “I wasn’t thinking about _him_ covered in anything. But good to know you get jealous easy,” he scratches his chin. “I can work with that.”

“No, you can’t.”

“’S’ok,” Stiles beams at him. “You’ll just have to leave your mark.”

Derek ghosts his lips over Stiles’ neck where the last bruise he left has almost faded. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, I like knowing you were there,” Stiles arches his neck back as Derek rubs his stubble against it, the rasp loud in the quiet of the elevator. Then they’re kissing again. Stiles pins him against the wall, clutching at his hair and Derek can’t get enough, can’t touch enough. He wants Stiles naked and on his bed _now_.

The doors open and they half stagger down the corridor, Derek rucking up Stiles’ t-shirt so he can get his hands on the planes of his back, and drag them down, cupping his ass and making Stiles lurch into him. He fumbles around for his keycard with his free hand, Stiles distracting him as he presses kisses to his neck, and fuck, fuck, he can’t get the damn door.

The light turns green, and he kicks the door open, swinging Stiles across the threshold and—

“—Jesus Christ, did we order the special room service?”

He leaps away from Stiles in shock and blinks rapidly as he takes in the scene. Laura and Erica both leap to their feet, and Derek pushes Stiles gently behind him in order to try and protect him from the onslaught that’s about to commence.

“I fucking _knew_ you’d man up.”

“I’m digging the dramatic entrances, Der.”

“Stiles, honey, congratulations on this afternoon’s game, and on getting Derek to put out.”

“ _Erica_.”

“You’re totally out of his league, though, look at your _face_ you’re totally angelic in comparison to him.”

“ _Laura_.”

Derek glances wildly around, eyes falling on the pizza boxes beside the bed, Boyd and Cora still immersed in the episode of CSI playing, and totally uninterested in what’s happening at the door.

“What the hell are you all doing in my room?”

“We never left,” Laura says with a roll of her eyes. “Like I was gonna move after eating, Derek. I’ve been recuperating, I ate _so_ much,” she tells Stiles. “I love sports events.”

“Me too,” Stiles says weakly and she crows at him, begins fluffing his hair.

“This is totally inappropriate,” Derek snaps, batting away her hands and opening the door once more to try and push her out of it. “Stop, Laura! _Get out_.”

“Can I stay if I promise not to try and touch Stiles? He just has such nice hair.”

“For god’s sake, all of you,” he points at Cora and she pouts, even as Boyd grabs her arm and moves towards the door. “Out. Out. Now.”

“You’re going to be amazing,” Cora tells Stiles as she passes. “We’re rooting for you.”

“Don’t you dare break his heart,” Erica adds as Boyd gently takes her arm with his free hand. “I mean it, I will find you. I know people.”

Cora yanks on her sister’s arm, winks at Derek over Stiles’ shoulder, and slams the door behind them.

There’s silence for a moment, Derek willing the floor to open up and swallow him whole, and then Stiles cracks up. Derek stares at him in surprise, and Stiles shakes his head.

“My friends are going to be so much worse than them, you don’t even know. And they’re infinitely more frightening than you.”

Derek sighs and flops onto the bed. “I’m sorry. They were—”

“They were very excited about the game,” Stiles cuts in. He hears him rustling around, and then feels his knees press against Derek’s. “And we’ll pretend they didn’t say anything else, or _see_ anything else.”

“Deal,” he says faintly, throwing an arm over his face.

Stiles sways backwards and forwards, bumping their knees together until he clears his throat. “So, did you want to get your beauty sleep, or did you want to have sex?”

Derek sits up sharply, yanks on Stiles’ hands and pulls him onto the bed. Stiles falls on top of him, laughing, and Derek kisses his cheek impulsively.

“So impatient.”

“Uh, did you miss the part where I’ve wanted to jump your bones for weeks, and all we’ve managed to fit in so far is a groping session in a classroom? Not that that wasn’t totally hot,” he adds, eyes drifting for a moment before he eyes Derek mischievously. “You wanna check Harris isn’t lurking in the corridor again?”

“I want to not talk about him, _ever_ , especially when I’m about to take your clothes off.”

“Oooh,” Stiles sits up and whips his shirt off. “Totally forgotten.”

“Yeah,” Derek says absently, eyes already on Stiles’ chest and the smattering of moles clustered on his shoulder. Derek wants to _lick_ , and so he does, leaning down and tonguing at Stiles’ skin.

“Ah, yeah, oh, ok,” Stiles’ hands pull at Derek’s own shirt and he leans back to help him wrench it off altogether. He skims his hands under Stiles’ shorts, pushes them off and Stiles is finally, gloriously naked on top of him. Derek drinks him in for a long moment, the long, lean lines of him, the strong, well-built arms and broad shoulders, the legs Derek fucking loves and his cock curved up against his stomach. He wraps his hand around it, and Stiles jerks forward.

“Oh, god.”

He strokes his hand up and down a few times, thumb brushing over the slit, totally hypnotized by the sight of it. Above him Stiles is breathing harshly, rocking into Derek’s hand and letting out tiny noises of pleasure. It’s a heady feeling, to know Derek is doing this to him, and he speeds his hand up, tips his head back to kiss Stiles who kisses him back frantically.

“God,” Stiles pulls back breathlessly.

“I prefer Derek,” he deadpans and Stiles huffs out a laugh, eyes scrunched tight and his expression blissful.

“Fucker.”

“If you want.”

Stiles snaps his eyes open to look at him. “Look at you catching on with the innuendos. I’m all proud over here.”

“ _Stiles_.”

“Yeah, you, uh,” Stiles licks his lips. “I’m new at this,” he says finally. “I don’t—”

“Relax,” Derek murmurs, drawing him in close again. “It’s gonna be good.”

“Is it, though?” Stiles pushes at his chest suddenly looking wary. “I’m all you know, _me_ , and gangly and you’re—I mean look at your shoulders, dude.”

Derek snorts, rolls them and leans over Stiles. “You’re nervous.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Stiles shoves at his shoulder, eyes fixed on the ceiling instead of on Derek. He nudges at Stiles’ nose with his own, waits until Stiles looks at him. “I want to, I just—I don’t want it to suck for you.”

“Stiles,” Derek runs a hand through his hair, smiles fleetingly at him. “That’s impossible.”

“But, I don’t know what to do.”

“So?” Derek flashes him another grin. “We’ll just have to have practices.”

Stiles starts to smile back. “Every Wednesday?”

“Any time you want,” Derek says against his mouth before kissing him again. Stiles melts into it, arching into him, and spreading his legs further to let Derek fit in-between. Derek moves to run his tongue along Stiles’ clavicles, scrapes his teeth gently against the delicate skin there before mouthing lower, sucking and kissing random spots on Stiles’ chest until it’s flushed red and Stiles is panting above him.

He gropes around the bed for a pillow and lifts Stiles’ hips, slipping it underneath. Stiles covers his face for a second, muttering to himself to hold it together and Derek laughs. He kisses Stiles’ inner thigh, and then ducks to swirl his tongue around the crown of Stiles’ dick. Stiles cries out in surprise, and Derek catches hold of his hips, presses him down as he dips his tongue into the slit, lapping at pre-come.

“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, I’m gonna die,” Stiles groans.

Derek hums, slowly taking more of Stiles into his mouth. It’s been a while since he’s done this, and never with someone as enthusiastic to what he’s doing as Stiles is. His hands are fluttering from Derek’s hair to his cheek to gripping at the sheets, teeth worrying his bottom lip, all strung out because of Derek’s mouth on him, because of what Derek’s doing to him. He looks debauched and so freaking beautiful it makes Derek’s toes curl, he finds he likes the picture a lot.

He curls a hand round Stiles’ dick, continuing to jerk him off as he sucks at Stiles’ balls and then licks over his hole. Stiles digs his foot into Derek’s shoulder, swearing at him, encouraging him, all of it garbled, and Derek does it again. He curls his tongue, plunging it further inside of Stiles, rubbing his own heavy dick against the mattress to get some sort of relief.

“Derek, oh, fuck, Derek.”

He tightens his hand on Stiles, thrusts his tongue in again and again until he's lose enough to slide a finger in beside his tongue. Stiles howls, arcs off the bed and comes all over Derek’s hand and his own stomach. Derek pulls away, hand slowing, and kisses Stiles’ hipbone before climbing up the bed.

Stiles’ chest is rising and falling rapidly, and his eyes are dazed when he blinks at Derek.

“Did I die?”

“No,” he says, trying not to feel smug and failing when he catches Stiles roll his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re awesome, that was awesome, so,” Stiles smirks at him. “What are you going to do with me now I’m all loose limbed and relaxed, _Mr Hale?_ ”

Derek flushes and then scowls at him. “That’s not funny.”

“It is, we’re gonna have to make up a really good story for how we met when you come meet my dad.”

Derek feels his eyes go wide, and then glances down at his dick. “Thank you for that,” he says drily.

“I’m here all week.”

“You better be.”

Stiles leans up and kisses him before looking around the hotel room. “Did you come prepared? I imagine a boy scout like you always is.”

“Yeah, in my bag.”

“Very optimistic of you.”

“Sometimes I can be.”

Stiles grins, and pushes at his shoulder until he rolls off to the side. He leaps up, grabbing Derek’s bag from the floor. Derek watches him lazily, satisfaction seeping into his bones as Stiles rummages around.

“Gotcha,” he crows, clambering back onto the bed and tossing lube at Derek’s chest. “Make yourself useful.”

“Useful?” Derek uncaps it, slicks up two fingers and pushes one right into Stiles in one fluid movement and Stiles stills where he’s kneeling beside him. Derek kneels up next to him, slowly working his finger in and out. “Useful enough?” he murmurs in Stiles’ ear.

Stiles clutches at his arm, nods wordlessly and Derek nudges his knees wider, adds a second finger.

“So fucking gorgeous,” Derek continues. “And mouthy, and unruly, and _insubordinate_.”

“Yep,” Stiles breathes out. “All of the above.”

“I didn’t stand a fucking chance.”

“Nope.”

Derek turns him, and Stiles drops onto his elbows, sticks his ass in Derek’s face.

“Get used to it,” he adds, quirking a glance over his shoulder.

Derek rips open the condom wrapper, rolls it on and slicks up his dick, going through the motions but not concentrating at all as his head buzzes, _this is it, don’t fuck it up, don’t hurt him, don’t screw **this** up_.

He curls a hand round Stiles’ hip, drapes over him and kisses the nape of his neck. He’s thrusting three fingers in and out and Stiles is rocking back to meet him, moaning low in his throat until he groans out, “Fucking come on, do it, _Derek_.”

And that’s all he needs to hear, lining himself up and sinking into Stiles as slowly as he can. Stiles makes a broken noise underneath him and Derek stills, kisses his shoulder. “You ok?”

“Yeah, yeah, just, a lot.”

He can relate. He feels overwhelmed; every particle of his body is in tune to Stiles, where he’s touching him, where he can feel his pulse underneath his lips, and against his hand and the noises he’s making that filling the room, where he’s _inside_ of Stiles. It’s so much, too much and not enough at the same time.

“Derek,” Stiles sighs out. “Derek, do something, move.”

“God, you feel good,” he grits out, rolling his hips and making both of them moan at the sensation. He skims his free hand down Stiles’ back, and then around to where his dick’s getting hard again, pumping slowly in time with his thrusts.

“Harder,” Stiles demands. “Fuck, _Derek_.”

Derek snaps his hips, driving into Stiles in an almost desperate rhythm. He can feel his orgasm building, every nerve tingling with pleasure and Stiles pushes himself up on one arm to reach back and kiss him. Their teeth clack, and they’re mostly panting against each other’s mouths before Derek can’t take it anymore. He pulls out, rolls Stiles over and Stiles looks up at him, body lax and legs spread as Derek slides back in. They look at one another until Derek has to shut his eyes, concentrate on where he’s fucking into Stiles’ perfect, wet heat, on moving his hand and tumbling them both to a pleasure so intense he can feel it in his toes.

He’s dazed by how good it feels, and Stiles cries out again, one hand joining Derek’s and the other scraping down his back.

“ _Fuck!_ ” He scrunches up his eyes and comes between them, clenching around Derek and it catches him by surprise, hips losing all rhythm as his orgasm rips through him and he stills on top of Stiles.

“Fuck _me_ ,” Stiles groans after a moment, hands sleepily petting over Derek’s shoulders.

Derek pushes up to look at him, kisses his smile. “You ok?”

“Yeah,” Stiles stretches, wiggling his hips. “I could totally do it again in a bit.”

He laughs, collapses beside him, arm staying put across Stiles’ stomach and Stiles laces his hand through Derek’s.

“Not feeling nervous anymore?”

“Only about tomorrow, _shit_ ,” Stiles shifts onto his side and frowns at Derek. “What if we lose?”

“You won’t,” Derek says firmly. “You’ll all be amazing.”

“But—”

“I obviously haven’t done a very good job of blowing your mind if you’re still worried about things.”

“Oh no, don’t worry, mind _totally_ blown, but I tend to worry about everything, _all the time_. It’s a flaw, ok?”

Derek lifts his free hand to stroke over Stiles’ face. “No, it’s not.” Stiles smiles almost shyly back at him, and Derek sits up, grabs his hand. “Shower,” he grunts. “It’ll distract you.”

“I’ll say,” Stiles drawls, eyes on Derek’s ass.

He can’t even bring himself to roll his eyes as he looks right back at Stiles and feels his heart turn over.

*

Derek wakes to a face full of Stiles’ hair, and grins stupidly to himself. In his sleep Stiles mumbles something, buries his face deeper against the side of Derek’s neck. For a moment Derek traces patterns down Stiles’ arm, relishing the fact that Stiles is here, Stiles wants something more from Derek, that he didn’t vanish in the middle of the night.

“Wussat?” Stiles sits up looking bewildered, and then spots Derek and beams dozily, dropping back onto Derek’s chest. “Oh good; I was having a nightmare about pancakes.”

“Who doesn’t have those,” Derek says drolly.

“Don’t get smart with me before noon,” Stiles says around a yawn, waving around a hand to try and hit Derek with. Derek catches it, draws it to rest on the other side of his chest. “Time is it?”

“Early,” he scrubs at his face. “You’ve got a couple of hours before the games.” Stiles squirms awkwardly for a minute and Derek tightens his grip on him. “What?”

“It’s just— you know how I mentioned my dad last night?”

“Is this going to be a thing? Are you constantly going to bring up shit like this when we’re in bed together? Because I need to prepare for that.”

Stiles rests his chin on his arms, peeks a glance at him under his lashes. “Uh, yeah, I’m not kidding around, my dad’s gonna be at the games later.”

Derek arches an eyebrow at him, feeling his heartbeat pick up and knowing Stiles can, too.

“Uh.”

“’S’ok, I can avoid an introduction if you want.”

“No, we can—” Derek looks at him feeling a little lost. “I didn’t really think about that part.”

“He won’t shoot you.”

“He might arrest me.”

“For what? Having impure thoughts about a seventeen year old?”

Derek groans and slaps a hand over his face. “Yes, exactly that.”

The phone in the room rings before Stiles can say anything else, and Derek half groans into it.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Lydia says brightly. “Tell Stiles he needs to be out front in half an hour, and that if he’s ever going to blatantly break my rules again he should at least take his cellphone with him.”

Derek opens and closes his mouth and Lydia puts the phone down.

“Nobody likes me very much right now,” he says wryly.

“I like you,” Stiles promises, leaning over to kiss his cheek and then rolling out of bed. He pulls on his shorts, wrinkling his nose at the fact they’re still damp and then looks expectantly at Derek. “You coming?”

“No.”

“Lydia isn’t that scary.”

“No, I mean—I said I’d hit the gym with Boyd this morning; he gets agitated if he doesn’t go every day.”

“Can you get him to live stream your work out for me? I feel it’ll be much more interesting to watch than whatever Lydia has planned.”

“No,” Derek grins despite himself. “This is your big day, your last games as a team; you should all be together.”

Stiles pauses from pulling his shirt on. “Shit, you’re just a big softie under the glowering and the making me do lines.”

Derek is the one squirming under Stiles’ affectionate gaze, and Stiles bends down to kiss him. “Later, Coach.”

“Don’t call me that,” Derek hisses, chucking a pillow at his head. “And good luck.”

“Mmm, kiss me again; it makes me feel sprightly and lucky.”

Derek snorts but curves his hand round the back of Stiles’ neck and kisses him for a long moment.

“Cool,” Stiles murmurs. “Ok, I should go, now.”

“Yep.”

“I mean it.”

“Now?”

“In five,” Stiles counters, sinking onto the bed.

When he leaves Derek falls back into the pillows and thinks about how even though he might be possibly shot, maimed, or arrested later, it was probably, no, strike that _definitely_ fucking worth it. The pillows still on the bed smell like Stiles and he burrows into them, determined to try and not think about any of it until a more decent hour.

*

“I’m so nervous I could barf,” Laura announces, chewing on her nails.

“It could have been the three hot dogs you ate earlier,” Derek suggests. Without looking she reaches out and jabs a sharp punch into his side. He can’t really fault her, though; he’s been on edge with nerves for hours. The team sailed through the semifinals, and broke for an hour whilst the other competitors determined who they’d be playing in their own semifinal. Derek distracted himself when he saw Stiles hop over the stands to greet the Sheriff and avoided making eye contact because seriously, he has no idea what he’s going to do about that.

Finstock’s found himself a megaphone from somewhere and is “testing” it out by yelling at random spectators.

Derek can’t take the waiting and ducks out of the hall for a minute to grab a breather. He startles when he sees Scott sitting on the wall further down, and strides over to him.

“McCall, you get lost?”

Scott jumps, and then looks up at him guiltily. “No, I was just—” he frowns at his hands. “What if we don’t win?”

“Does it seem like you’ve made a habit of losing so far?”

“No, but, this is different,” Scott says vehemently. “After this we’re all gonna go off for the summer and if we win we can be happy about it, but if we lose… what if we all blame each other?”

“Lydia will blame me,” Derek says helpfully and Scott makes a pained face.

“I don’t want to know.”

“I meant because I wasn’t your proper Coach! Look, Scott, you’re a great Captain, whether you win or lose, you’ll keep your team together. Our team lost and I still _live_ with one of my team mates. That’s not the important part; the important part is that you guys played as a team, that you’re all friends, and that you can get together and play any time you like, but if you never feel like playing again, I’m pretty sure _everyone_ is sticking around.” He gives Scott a significant look, “And I mean everyone.”

Scott nods slowly before jumping up. “You’re right.”

“There’s a first for everything.”

“Naw, man you’ve been alright really,” Scott beams at him and then his phone starts playing _I Just Had Sex_ loudly, and he scowls as he fumbles trying to find it. “It’s Stiles; do you know how I know that?”

Derek tries for an innocent, confused look and misses by a mile.

“You suck, both of you,” Scott hisses as he answers. His face softens after a moment, “Aw no, buddy I haven’t left you, ‘m just outside. Yeah, yeah,” he narrows his eyes at Derek suddenly. “He’s here, too. No, we’re not running off together… Stiles! Fine, we’ll be right in.” He hangs up and jerks his head at the door. “Coming?”

Derek nods, and follows him inside, wondering if somewhere in there Scott’s implied he’s ok with Derek and Stiles, or if it’s going to bite him in the ass at some point in the near future. Probably the latter.

Stiles waves a hand as they come in, and Derek shoves Scott towards the court, warning him to not screw up.

“Right back at you,” Scott tosses over his shoulder. Derek trips over his feet slightly, glancing at Stiles who grins back, oblivious.

Cora tugs Derek down to sit next to her, gripping his arm tightly, and then once their friends are no longer looking, turns to narrow her eyes at him. “So?”

“So, what? I told you at breakfast; we’re not talking about it.”

“You told Erica and Laura that, I chose to ignore it.”

“Your mistake because I’m not talking, and you know _nothing_.”

“I know you’ve practically been radiating happiness and smiling stupidly at your hands all day when you think no one else is looking.” Derek clenches his jaw and Cora pats his cheek. “Don’t worry he keeps doing it, too.”

“Cora.”

She rolls her eyes, standing as the whistle blows for the start of the game. “I think it’s awesome.”

He stands with her, clapping absently. “It is,” he says after a moment, and Cora elbows him looking pleased.

The team seem unusually uncoordinated as they begin; Isaac appears to be distracted, Allison’s back to overthrowing, and during the rush Danny failed to pick up any balls at all. For some reason Scott is leaping around far more than usual and Stiles is practically static at the back. They’re a mess.

Derek grabs the megaphone from Finstock and clambers down the stands until he’s right on the floor.

“Stilinski, look alive! Argent, make it sharper, Lahey, get your head in the game!”

They all spare him fleeting glances and he continues to yell, not sure what’s come over him as he passes out encouragement and criticism.

“Mahealani, sacrifice fly, now, now!”

“Don’t even think about it,” he yells as Stiles bounds towards a shot aimed at Scott. To Derek’s surprise, Stiles listens and Scott is tagged out, leaving Stiles to easily catch the next ball and bring him back into the game. He tosses the ball to Scott and Scott slams it at one of the remaining opposition as Lydia sails over Isaac to take out the kid at the back. He catches her from falling, sweeping her up in a hug as the game is called and the small crowd erupt into cheer. Derek’s pretty sure he can hear Finstock with _another_ megaphone screaming about that being his team.

The entire team race to Lydia and Isaac, hugging and half stumbling to the floor, and Derek watches Stiles throw back his head laughing feeling totally elated.

They won.

*

“Coach Hale!” Derek freezes mid-sentence where he’s standing outside, eyes widening desperately at Laura and she smirks at him, slowly turning him around. Stiles and his dad are standing behind him, Stiles with a fucking crown he’s found from somewhere and he’s beaming at Derek like Derek’s not about to die.

“Uh, Sheriff, hello.”

“That was some great play you brought out in those kids.”

“Yeah,” he says stiffly. “They had it in them in the end.”

The Sheriff laughs, clapping Stiles on the shoulder. “Stiles tells me you’re going to be running together over the summer, should keep him busy.”

“Oh,” Derek lifts an eyebrow at Stiles who shrugs, winking at him. “Yeah, gotta keep active.”

“He might even fall in love with me,” Stiles crows and the Sheriff rolls his eyes, disappearing to find Ms McCall inside, seemingly unaware that Stiles’ words aren’t really a foreshadowing, but that Derek’s already totally head over heels.

Derek shoves his hands in his pockets to stop from touching Stiles, and Stiles steps closer, still beaming at him.

“So, you think you can keep up with me all summer?”

“I can try,” Derek says softly back.

Stiles’ smile widens and he rocks back on his heels. “You wanna take me to dinner tomorrow to celebrate? I’ve gotta lot of free time these days.”

“Yeah, we could do that.”

“We’d probably need to burn it off after, don’t wanna lose my edge for college sports, you know.”

“You should probably get a gym membership.”

“Yeah? You know any good ones?”

“I can think of one you’d like. Sometimes there are impromptu parties with cupcakes.”

“I _do_ like cupcakes.”

Derek laughs, heart soaring and throws caution to the wind as he grabs the front of Stiles’ vest, pulling him closer still to slot their mouths together.

“This is going to be a _very_ good summer,” Stiles declares after a moment, pulling away to blink excitedly at Derek. His eyes are warm and affectionate, and his smile is fucking perfect as Derek runs his thumb over it. “And you can jog to my college, right? It’s only like two hours down the road, easy peasy for you.”

Derek nods, hands sliding down Stiles’ sides to wrap around his waist and keep him close. “I can work with that,” he says quietly, and Stiles’ smile is dazzling.

**Author's Note:**

> Stiles is not underage when any sexual acts take place, but read at your caution if flirtation and such taking place underage squicks you out. 
> 
> Allison and Stiles share the same birthday in this fic, i'm aware it's not canon compliant. Erica will always be alive in my AUs, too (◡‿◡✿)
> 
> i literally know nothing about dodge ball except what I have researched this week. Derek isn't trained as a teacher, but i figured at a school where the Argents replaced the Principal with an eighty year old man, nobody would bat an eye if Finstock chose Derek to cover for him.


End file.
